


Dessert First

by Angel_Wings14



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: (Not SnowBaz), Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Baz is not a vampire, Bisexual Simon Snow, Character Death, Daphne Love, Eating Disorders, Everyone has magic, Gay Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Homophobia, I mean it's Titanic... People died, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Simon is actually fairly competent, So is Malcolm Grimm, Suicide Attempt, i apologise for nothing, the mage is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 45,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28692744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_Wings14/pseuds/Angel_Wings14
Summary: “What’s that they say about having dessert first if you’re on the Titanic?” – Carry On, p. 299.It’s 1912. Simon Snow has managed to swindle a ticket on board the Titanic using illegal magic in a game of dice. As luck would have it, he’s in the right place at the right time, helping depressed socialite Baz Pitch who has found himself on the wrong side of the railings. Simon may melt Baz’s cold heart, but the sea is full of ice.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 20
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My take on a Carry On Titanic AU. I love both so much so, naturally, I had to write this. I hope you enjoy!

_Simon_

The stakes are high. I can’t afford to lose this wager, it’s all of my life savings. If I lose, I’ll only have the shirt on my back, and frankly that is threadbare and patchy, little defence against the cold Southampton air.

But those tickets. I could set up a new life in America, away from my humdrum life here. Away from the ghost of my mother, never more jumping at the shadows for fear of my abusive father. I have already been running from these since I turned 16 and hitched a ferry ride to the continent and back. But the new world, it’s full of possibility and I can just taste it. If only I can get these tickets.

Fortunately for me, I am playing against some Normals, who have no idea of the advantage I possess. My magic is powerful but can be as unreliable as my shirt. While I have gotten better at controlling it, it still sometimes comes in unpredictable bursts so all I can do is pray that this time it will come through. I grip the stolen wand in my pocket, the only thing worthwhile I had gotten out of my father apart from my life, and whisper under my breath. “ **Luck be a lady**.”

I focus all the magic I feel building in the hand holding the wand and concentrate it towards the dice in the other. I hold eye contact with my opponents across the table, smirking with a confidence that is all for show, and roll.

All sixes.

I whoop and holler, gathering up all of my possessions and coins that I had laid across the adjoining table as part of the bet. The guy with the tickets begrudgingly hands them over and shakes my hand with a punishing grip. I just smile through the pain.

“Better get going, mate,” says my opponents’ friend gruffly. “Ship sets sail in the next half an hour and the dock is twenty from here on foot.”

I glance down at the cracked pocket watch balanced precariously on top of my stack of belongings and see that he’s right. It’s already 11.30am. I stuff my armload into a hessian sack that smells vaguely of potato and rush out of the pub without a second glance back.

I dodge through the streets, taking short cuts and cutting corners. There are a lot of people milling around though, wanting to watch the massive ship set sail on its maiden voyage. It really will be a sight to behold, and even better to be on the deck.

Buoyed up by the thought, I channel a little more magic. “ **Make way** ,” I assert, careful to keep my wand hidden under the flap of the sack I carry. I must be a little _too_ buoyant though, as the crowds part faster than a whore’s legs, as if a great gust of wind has pushed them apart. Even a few cars out on the road swerve dangerously towards the curb, allowing me to run directly down the middle of the confusion.

I arrive at the dock just on time, the shipmen already starting to draw up the anchor.

“Hey!” I yell. “Wait I have a ticket let me board!”

A friendly man in uniform thrusts out a wooden plank for me to scramble across. He retracts it as soon as I clamber on board. I present my ticket to his outstretched hand. He takes a moment to examine it, and after it passes muster he hands the papers back with another friendly smile.

“Welcome on board, sir. Looks like you made it just in time,” he states, hand dropping to an alarming looking belt buckle that can’t be regulation. “Your bunk is on the lower third deck, if you just follow the corridor and down the steps, you’ll see a sign for it.” He gestures down a sparkling white hall, port windows letting in the noonday sun to blinding effect. I cheerfully set off, sack and all, to find this bunk.

 _I’m living a charmed life_ , I think.

_Baz_

_Oh yes, I’m living a charmed life_ , I think, scoffing internally.

I stand on the top deck of the Titanic, surrounded by my stepmother’s hat boxes. My shirt has been starched within an inch of its life, the collar stiffly rubbing against my neck. My father has delighted in pressing hands with the other well-to-do on this Merlin-forsaken voyage, using my late mothers name and prestige to press his advantage in high society. It makes me sick to my stomach, although that could also be the motion of the vessel on the rough English coastline.

The boxes and cases of clothes and trinkets are being slowly cleared by the ship crew, squirreled away in what will no doubt be lavish quarters. No second-rate accommodations for the house of Pitch. I sigh and lean against the railings. Below me, the common crowd on the lower decks wave tearfully to their loved ones on the docks. How I wish to be among them, either of the crowds. They have petty problems, easily solved with a little hard work. No family reputation to maintain, nothing like the pressures I have to cope with. They can be who they wanted to be.

They can be free.

_Simon_

I have been on board the Titanic just one day, but I can feel the winds of change.

The ship made a pit stop at Cherbourg, France last night, and again at Queenstown in the Republic of Ireland this morning, filling my quarters below deck with a variety of people from all walks of life. I share my immediate bunk with a lovely Italian couple who were hoping to start a farm when we finally land in New York. They are exuberant in their marriage, which made sleeping last night a trial. (I don’t speak a word of Italian, but I feel another week of this and I might pick up a number of new expletives and blasphemes).

I don’t wake until fairly late in the morning due to my disturbed sleep. When I get to the mess hall, all the food being served had been stowed away. I will have to remember that for tomorrow. My stomach grumbles mutinously, but there is nothing I can do about it right now.

I decide to walk around the upper decks, hoping the fresh sea air will distract me from my gnawing hunger. It won’t be the first time I’ve gone without, but I really hate to do it. I have a high metabolism, running hot like I do and maintaining my broad shoulders. At least that’s what a lovely lady in France had said last time I backpacked across Île-de-France.

Not that there was anything untoward happening between her and me. It wasn’t what people thought: Ebb had seen me in the rain trying to keep my meagre possessions dry under an awning and had offered me a place to stay. I helped her tend her goats on the outskirts of Paris. It was some of the best weeks of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I certainly sampled other parts of Paris too, and learned many things from the sexy men and women in and around the Moulin Rouge; but the peaceful weeks I spent with Ebb were just what I needed to get out of my angry head. And she taught me some useful French phrases (not just the naughty phrases that I had learnt to turn into pleasure spells).

The upper decks are luxurious beyond belief. I can’t imagine anyone needing so much space. The view too! Wow, what a view. I want to draw it, but I have never been good with a pencil. I would write it out as poetry, but I am terrible with words too. As it is, I am content to let the imagery fill me with directionless motivation. I commit the view to memory as a happy place to go to if I ever needed serenity for a spell.

There are few people on the deck I am pacing. A beautiful couple are taking a turn, the ladies arm looped round the mans. Her golden hair is flying around her in the stiff sea breeze, barely contained by the hat that carefully pins it down. Her skirts, a ruffled pale peach, threaten her immodesty, but she seems not to care, happily chatting away to her gentleman escort. He is her opposite and all the more striking for it. His shoulder length hair is slicked back, not a single strand out of place. Where her skin is pale, his is a silky russet. Her happy chatter fills in his stoic silence, his brow deeply furrowed and mouth down turned in a scowl. Despite his demeanour, his aristocratic cheekbones and straight nose make his face perfectly proportioned and, frankly beautiful. I have no idea how he could be in the presence of such a pretty young lady and maintain such a face, but oh how wonderful they look together.

A short way away, another couple sits, a puppy playing between them and providing a seemingly endless source of mirth. But what interests me the most is a lonely looking middle-aged lady sat near the railings with a tea set and a plate of tiny sandwiches and pastries. Ok, so it isn’t entirely out of the goodness of my heart that I decide to keep her company. (More like the goodness of my empty stomach).

I sidle my way over to her table, gesturing to the empty chair next to her. “Is anyone sitting here?” I ask.

She turns her startled eyes on me before gesturing to the chair. “Oh no, by all means, please sit.”  
Now that I am sitting next to her I can taste the coolness of her magic rolling across my tongue. It is sharp like lemons and, combined with the salty sea air, reminded me of good times. There is no doubt she can sense my magic too. Ebb told me other mages could feel me coming like a storm. It’s how she knew to look outside to find me. Maybe that’s what the look was for, I could be quite overwhelming, especially for those who don’t expect it.

“Thanks,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Simon. Simon Snow. Lovely to meet you.”

She shakes my hand as she replies. “Penelope Bunce. I’m delight-”

Just then my stomach impertinently announces its presence in the conversation. I flush, feeling the blood rush to the tips of my ears and pool in splotchy puddles around my collar bones. 

“I am so sorry,” I wince. “I just, I didn’t have time for breakfast and I didn’t, I mean – “

She cuts me off, putting a hand on the table I’m drilling a hole into with my mortified stare. She’s wearing a beautiful amethyst ring, and I can feel the power it exudes. I glance up at her and am pleasantly surprised to be greeted with a smile.

“Please, help yourself to some of mine,” she says, pushing forward a plate of scones. “They really gave me more than I could possibly eat. I have no idea what they were thinking, I asked for tea for one!”

I pick up a random scone from the plate and take a bite. My eyes widen as the flavour of sour cherries explodes in my mouth. This is the best thing I have ever tasted. I quickly stuff in a second mouthful, moaning around it. Penelope delicately laughs behind her hand. I must look pretty ridiculous, so I laugh too, except I have a mouth full of crumbs which go flying as I guffaw. Penelope’s delicate giggling devolves into unattractive snorting, which only makes me laugh harder.

Our joviality has drawn the attention of the two couples. The couple with the puppy whisper together and hide their smiles behind their hands. The beautiful couple, on the other hand, look shocked and appalled at our outburst. The lady’s eyes have widened, and the man is sneering. I feel sorry for them that they can’t find joy in our laughter.

I turn back to Penelope, who is still occasionally snorting lightly. She seems unaware, or at least indifferent, to the attention of the others. I decide that if she doesn’t care then I don’t either.

“These are really good,” I manage to choke out, once I’ve finally swallowed. “Thank you so much, Penelope.”

“Call me Penny,” she insists, and then pushes the plate of sandwiches towards me as well.

I eat the entire plate, after Penny reassures me that she’s eaten all she wants. The roast beef ones are my favourite, I decide, saving one for last. Between mouthfuls, I talk to Penny. I tell her that I won my ticket in a game of dice. She tells me that she’s new to money, having made a new spell that has drastically changed the medical community. She’s decided to take this revolution to the new world to help as many people as she can. I think it’s admirable.

Our conversation turns to magical politics, which I know very little of, but apparently the Old Families are in disarray. She tells me that just after the turn of the century a small group of people had started talk of a revolution against the magical order, threatening to out the magical community to the Normals. (I knew this part because my dad was the leader of this group, but I didn’t tell her that). But this uprising has thrown the Old Families because some fell on one side of the divide and some the other, while others still stayed out of the way. There are some now that are trying to rejoin old alliances by marrying off the younger generation, which sounds horrible to me.

Our conversation turns again, this time to travel. This I can contribute more to, regaling Penny with my best stories from my trips across Europe. Her eyes light up at the bawdier tales. In return she tells me of the monster hunting she used to do at my age, traipsing around the British countryside, and for one summer the French countryside too. She weaves the tales in the most fantastical way, each creature seeming all the more vivid for the horrific detail she adds. Before I know it, the sun is high overhead and we have whiled away the entire morning.

“This has been most pleasant, Simon,” she says, standing. “But I should get back to my preparations. These correspondences won’t write themselves and I really want them to be sent off as soon as we touch down in New York. I’ll be taking breakfast up here again tomorrow if you want to join me again, I like it up here.”

“It is really nice up here,” I agree. “I’ll see you again tomorrow, if not before.”

She presses her hand against my arm before heading back inside.

I spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the rest of the ship. There are lots of decks, with each level putting a different type of humanity on display. I even find one level that is entirely dedicated to storing cars and other vehicles. I spend some time weaving between the models. I admire one particularly shiny motorcycle. I want to touch it, but I don’t want to leave fingerprints on the bright chrome.

By the time dinner rolls around I still have much left to explore, but I am hungry (like usual) so I head back to the mess. Unlike my visit this morning, the room is heaving with people. There’s stew and its rich aroma permeates the room, mingling with the stench of sweat and _people._ My mouth is watering.

I muscle my way to the serving line and find a seat at the communal benches. There’s not a lot of room, and I feel several body parts brushing against my own, but the meat tastes good and in the back of the room a small group seem to have taken it upon themselves to provide entertainment, with songs in some European language I don’t recognise. Still the spirit of the room lifts, and soon I find myself laughing and clapping along, feeling a sense of camaraderie with this bunch of strangers.

_Baz_

I am utterly bored.

I have been forced to spend the day with the simpering Agatha Wellbelove. My father thinks it would be a _prudent match_ which is his way of saying it’ll keep the money and the magic in the family, whilst keeping me away from my perverted desires. I was reluctant to come down to dinner, and it would seem I was right to be so.

The table is more crowded than I would like, with all the magical families from the upper decks rubbing elbows. Not literally of course, that would be undignified. Even Penelope Bunce is here at the table, despite my father’s distaste for her. He says she is too uncouth for the upper class, having made her money rather than inherited like everyone else here. I refrain from mentioning that _he_ had actually married into it from the middle class and was therefore a hypocrite. I personally think it’s admirable what she did, advancing magic like that. But my opinion counts for very little, so I wash it down my throat with a gulp of wine.

I don’t eat much. My father has forced the seating so I have my step-mother on one side and Agatha on the other. They both keep up idle small talk around the numerous dishes served up. I hate eating in front of people. I hate eating in general. Sometimes, it feels like I grasp at the small things I can control, and how much food I eat is one of them. The opulence around us seems excessive, and it spills out over the waist bands of the older generation. They can’t even sit flush with the table and I vow to never indulge myself the way they do. I could perch my ribcage on the tabletop if I so desired. It was like spitting in the face of everything my father tried to give me, and I revelled in it. I thrive on the emptiness.

I can feel the wine go to my head, with only a few bites of dinner to slow its passage. When the other gentlemen at the table withdraw to the smoking area, I too stand and take my leave. Unlike them, I go to the upper decks for some air.

It’s dark outside and the wind is cutting. I can feel the cold down to my bones, as I always have been able to. I briefly consider creating a bubble of warm air to stand in. It’s not like there are any Normals around to see me cast it. But that feels too much like giving in to luxury. I don’t want to feel comfortable when just living hurts so much. Maybe I should just set myself on fire instead? That way I would die warm.

I shake off those thoughts and instead go to the railing.

The dark sea is churning below the overhand of the deck. I can see the glint of the propellers slicing and mixing the froth, like so much bitter coffee. I wonder how far down one would have to go to reach calm waters. How cold would it be down there in the serene depths? Surely the pressure would be nothing compared to this pounding behind my eyes.

I feel it call me like a siren song. I could be one with the sea. It would take me in it’s cold embrace, and we would match cold for cold. My late mother had the same slate grey eyes as I do, and they reminded me of the ocean on an overcast day. I could return those to the waters too and at last see my mother again.

It would look like an accident. A stray passenger toppling overboard into the choppy sea. Maybe a gust of wind knocked them, or they leaned over the rail at just the wrong time for the jolting waves. My father might be angry for a time, all that effort he put into grooming me to carry the family name, lost. But it’s not like I don’t have siblings to take up my mantle. And I would be sparing Agatha Wellbelove a life of misery. I could never love her and, as much as she irritated me, it isn’t her fault. She doesn’t deserve that.

I find my foot on the first rung of the rail before I’ve even given it a conscious thought. And then another and another. My legs are long so it isn’t hard to swing them over to the other side. There’s a ledge a couple of inches wide on the other side that I balance on. My elbows are still hooked over the top of the railing, holding me fast for now.

The salty spray of the water is cold on my face, and now it mingles with hot tears. I don’t remember when I started to cry but I don’t try to wipe them away. What’s more water to the sea?

Just as I start to lean forward, I hear a shout. It startles me enough that my polished shoe slips from the precarious perch it had.

White hot terror grips me then. I don’t want to fall.

_Simon_

I come up to the upper decks after dinner in the hopes of seeing Penny again. I really enjoyed talking to her this morning, and none of the other people I’ve encountered below deck have magic. Mine is so strong it seems to put them off after a while, so there’s little chance I’ll get to make friends on board with my bunk fellows.

As I get to the top of the steps, though, I see a figure against the railing. No not against it, on the wrong side. I don’t know who it is, but his dark hair is whipping around his head in the wind, making him look wild and alive. But then he starts to lean forward, as if to dive into the dark depths below.

“No!” I shout, which makes him start. I can see him start to fall downwards, but I am already running across the slippery decking towards him. By the time I reach him, only his arms are keeping him where he is, his legs desperately kicking the sides of the hull as he scrambles for purchase.

I grasp his elbow firmly in one hand and sling my other arm across his torso to keep him bound to the ship. I’m gasping hotly into his ear, our cheeks almost pressed together.

“Don’t struggle,” I rasp out. “I’ve got you now.”

“Please, I – I can’t – “ he stutters. I can feel magic on his skin where we’re touching. That’s such a relief, because this rescue effort will be so much easier with magic.

I know I can do wandless magic if I try hard enough, it’s a skill I inherited from my mother, much to my father’s chagrin. It’s a blessing now, as I don’t think I could let go to grab my wand. Instead I whisper into his skin, “ **light as a feather**.”

Immediately, I am able to pull him over the railings as if he weighed nothing more than a piece of paper. The wind caught underneath him, sending his legs flying like a kite, but I tether him to myself, arms in a vice like grip.

“ **As you were** ,” I growl out as soon as we are safely on the floor of the deck.

He turns toward me, eyes wide and nostrils flared. It was him.

The beautiful man from this morning. Even with the look of horror painted in fresh tear tracks across his face, he is still stunning. I can especially see up close how his jaw line and cheek bones can cut glass. They are perhaps even a little too sharp. And come to think of it, even with the lightness charm lifted, I can barely feel him across my lap where I have pulled him to safety.

What I can feel is his breathing rapidly moving the hand I’ve rested on his abdomen. Much too fast; he’s hyperventilating. I carefully manoeuvre him so his head is ducked between his knees, and gently coax him into slowing his breathing, making him match the pace of his with mine.

By the time he has recovered, other people have started to spill out into the open air, still dressed up in their finery from what I assume was a fancy dinner. A tall man rushes over to us, and harshly yanks me up.

“You brute! What have you done to my son?” he yells at me, spittle flying in my face.

“Father, no,” the beautiful man cries out, weakly. “Please, he saved my life.”

By now a crowd has amassed around us. I can see the frightened eyes of Penny in the crowd, a head shorter than the rest. This reassures me slightly, at least I have one friend in my would-be lynch mob.

But the beautiful man is starting to stand, and I unconsciously move forward to help him again. “It’s true, sir,” I implore, gripping the beautiful man’s forearm. “I – he was by the railing.” I feel him stiffen under my grip, but I know how delicate these situations can be and I won’t out him to his father. I’ve been there before and I would wish it on no man. “The wind must have caught him,” I continue. “And these railings really aren’t that high. I managed to pull him back just in time.”

“And I suppose you want a reward for saving Basilton, will you?” He’s looking me up and down as I finish my recounting of events, and clearly he finds me lacking. I can see the same sneer that the beautiful man, Basilton, had on his face this morning. Must run in the family.

I vehemently shake my head. “Oh no,” I assure him. “I was just doing what anyone decent person would have done.”

It was then that Penny steps forward and lays a hand on Basilton’s father’s arm. “Malcolm,” she starts. “Simon is a good lad, he wouldn’t. He’s one of us.”

I didn’t think it was possible for more distaste to enter Malcolm’s face, but it does now. He looks down at Penny’s hand on him in revulsion. It’s quickly removed.

“Fine,” he grits out gruffly, keenly aware of the eyes on him. “Simon was it?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply.

“You will come to dinner with us tomorrow,” he barks, a statement not a question. Then he turns on his heel and leaves. I feel shocked. His son nearly _died,_ and he has just turned and left. My father was cold but he at least had the decency to check in on me after a scrape up. This is next level.

I realise then, with a start that I am still holding onto Basilton’s forearm.

I take a step back, but offer out my hand to shake.

“We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Simon. Simon Snow.”

He takes my hand slowly, eyes roaming over my face. He still looks a little shaken, but I can see the curiosity and maybe a touch of wonder in that gaze.

“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he replies. That’s a mouthful.

“Wow, what a mouthful,” I smile.

He abruptly drops my hand. “Well I guess it would be for the likes of you,” he sneers. But as quickly as the derision came, he drops it again. He runs a hand over his face.

“Sorry,” he says. “That was unkind, I’m not thinking straight. You can call me Baz if you like. And uh…”  
He hesitates here, as if he’s unsure what to say next.

“Th-thank you. For saving my life. And not, you know…” he gestures at the doorway his father had left through. I wonder if he has ever thanked anyone before in his snooty privileged life.

“Anytime.”

Then he too leaves, and the tension on the deck breaks. The crowd disperses.

I can see Penny approach and I smile. At last, a friend.

_Baz_

Simon Snow.

He was so beautiful.

Even as I was gripped in mortal terror, I couldn’t help but notice how the moonlight shone through his tousled bronze curls.

And he was so warm pressed against me, his muscled arm like a steel band across my chest. But instead of feeling constricted, I felt like I had finally been freed from my cage.

He didn’t even tell my father the truth, just looked him in the eye and told him it was an accident. I wanted to kiss him in that moment. I didn’t of course, that would be uncalled for, but I wanted to. Oh, what his lips would feel like beneath mine.

I had to get away before I did something rash, but he was friendly and smiling and I could still feel his magic burning over my skin, starting at my cheek where he had pressed his face. I hadn’t even seen his wand.

As I try to sleep that night, all I can think of is him. Maybe it was just my brush with mortality, but I swear looking into his eyes, I have never felt more alive.

In the morning I wake up hungry for the first time in years.

There’s a small parlour attached to my family suite that has coffee and sweet pastries served up each morning. Yesterday I avoided it like the plague, but today I am drawn to the scent, my mouth watering. My father is at the end of the table, a large paper obscuring his face. It must be a couple of days old as there is no new press, but I think he likes the constancy of ignoring his family in favour for the business pages. My stepmother is here too, tending the youngest of my siblings. I don’t know where my sister Mordelia has gotten too, probably playing with the puppy she was so keen on yesterday or with some of the other children on board. She’s independent and headstrong, there is no keeping her reigned in.

I help myself to some of the meats and cheeses on the table, and a fresh bread roll. The flavours roll across my tongue and it feels like water in a desert, filling me up and clearing my head. I want my strength today. I’m going to find Simon Snow again. Not only did he make me feel as young as I am, I knew my father would disapprove any friendship we struck up. But the man did save my life, so he couldn’t exactly stop me either. It is perfect. (And if I like to look at him for my own selfish reasons, well no one is to know).

No one speaks to me at breakfast, which is probably for the best. I am feeling pretty keyed up for so early in the morning. I don’t want to answer their questions as to my presence at the table either. Though I suppose I’m not surprised they don’t ask, because the eating thing is just another thing on the laundry list of things we don’t talk about.

I finish up quickly and head up to the top deck. He was here yesterday, I recall, laughing loudly with Penelope Bunce. Their friendship will rile up my father, so even better.

I spot them easily enough, laughing in the same place they were yesterday morning. Simon is even more beautiful in the sun than he was in the moonlight. It’s like he was made to revel in the warmth of the day. He throws his head back in response to something Penelope says, revealing the long line of his neck. There are more moles there than on his face and I am especially captivated by the one just under the line of his jaw, up near his ear.

As his laughter tapers off, he looks over and catches me staring. He says something to Penelope before standing and making his way over to me. His loping strides are as effortless as his smile, and I feel my heart stutter at his approach. Up close, I notice some of his teeth are a little crooked and his nose has definitely been broken at least once, but it does nothing to detract from his attractiveness. If anything, it makes him more real. He’s lived his life and I am no small part jealous of that.

“Morning Baz, how’re you holding up?” He asks, his friendly smile belied by his concerned eyes. There’s more emotion in that one sentence than I ever felt from my father in my whole life. I don’t know how to deal with it, but it sets off butterflies in my stomach. The sensation is foreign and familiar, a long-forgotten dream since father banished the stable boy from our family house when I was 15. I had forgotten how much I like it.

“Perfectly fine thank you,” I reply automatically. I am more than fine, now that he is here with me once more, but I would likely scare the poor boy off if I said so aloud. A dubious expression crosses his face.

“Fine?” he questions. His eyes pierce through me. Where mine are the sea on a cloudy day, his are the colour of sunshine sparkling off the waves. These are the waters I want to drown in, last night I just didn’t realise this was an option. “Last night…”

He seems to be echoing my thoughts. But I don’t want to go back to that bleak place last night. “Nothing happened last night,” I retort a little sharply.

“But I-“

“But nothing,” I cut him off. “You saved me from falling but I am fine now.” I eye him meaningfully.

A flash of hurt crosses his face, followed by his eyes hardening to blue steel. But after a second his face softens once more. He seems to understand.

What could have happened in his beautifully simple life that let him understand? I’m probably projecting, reading too much into it... But he knew to lie to my father.

What a conundrum you are Simon Snow.

“Okay good. I just wanted to be sure you weren’t still shaken up… from almost falling.” He emphasises the last part, a challenging glint in his eye. I pretend I don’t see.

I want to leave this conversation now. The butterflies have turned into a hurricane under the torrent of his compassion. I really am broken that a simple ‘ _how are you’_ can break me.

“Was there something you wanted, Snow?” I bite out. I don’t want to push him away, but I don’t know how else to be. I apologise in my head for being curt, but it would never show on my face. He seems to shake himself, as if he was as drawn into our conversation as me and has just now been reminded of his intent.

“Right, yes,” he stammers. His arm stretches up to awkwardly scratch the back of his head. The thin cotton of his shirt strains painfully over his bicep, making my mouth dry up. “I just, your dad, he said dinner and I – well, um I-“

“Spit it out, Snow,” I hiss, but I try to soften the words with an upturn of my lips.

His stuttering grinds to a halt as his eyes get caught on my lips, but the moment lasts only a second.

“I have nothing to wear,” he grinds out, eyes dropping to his worn and holey shoes. He’s right of course, he couldn’t come to the dining room dressed like he is at least. They wouldn’t even let him through the doors, no matter who had invited him, looking like a street urchin.

I eye him up and down, humming contemplatively. I’m taller than him, and he stockier than me. None of my tailored suits will fit him, and he would strain the stiches if he tried. There is that one grey suit I haven’t had tailored yet though, that I could perhaps spell to his dimensions. I’m not a huge fan of the colour against my skin, so if this goes wrong there’d be no great loss.

“I think I might have something you could wear. Come on.”

Without looking back I turn and head to my rooms.

_Simon_

He just walks away without looking back to see if I’d follow.

Of course, I follow. I’d follow him through a storm.

His face is just as beautiful this morning as it was in my dream last night. He had a little more colour to his skin too, though that might be the sunlight. And his eyes aren’t as sad as they were yesterday. They were so intense I felt like they would burn me as he looked me up and down. I miss their heat now they’re not on me.

He leads me down a carpeted hallway, towards a set of dark wooden doors. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were mahogany. In my quarters the floor is stone and the doors solid metal. Easy to clean, slow to wear. It’s like being in a different world up here.

He pushes the doors open, a dramatic double-door entrance. There is no one inside to appreciate the dramatic flair, but I don’t think he even realises how over the top it was. He surely isn’t performing for me, why would he? I am nothing but the dirt on his shoes, only deserving of his attention this one day for my deeds the night before.

I don’t like to think about what night have happened if I hadn’t been there yesterday. The world would surely mourn this beautiful vibrant man before me. He’s wearing a silk shirt today, much more comfortable looking than his pressed suit last night. It has a subtle floral pattern embossed in the fabric which is only visible when it catches the light.

Yes, if anyone is able to find me something to wear, it’s this man. Besides it’s his fault I need something to wear in the first place.

His room is big enough to fit my whole shared bunk in five times over. I am momentarily stunned, and take that time to really drink it in. It’s so… opulent I think is the word. How could any one person need this much space? This many things? It blows my mind, this glimpse into how the other half lives. And I suppose, it’s only going to be worse at dinner. I really do need better clothes to wear than these rags. It makes me feel itchy just being here.

I don’t want to touch anything, which makes my anxiety rise. And as it always did when I felt like this my magic starts to spill out too. It is like smoke pouring out of a poorly swept fireplace.

I see the moment Baz notices. He’s bent over a trunk, pert backside stuck tantalisingly in the air. He quickly straightens, head snapping to me.

“Snow?” he questions. “What are you… Are you ok?”

He starts to step closer but winces against the press of my magic.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s – I just – it’s just so much,” I gasp out, gesturing to all the decadence surrounding us. Baz looks to where I’m gesturing and his lip curls.

“It’s just stuff, Simon,” he says, powering through the discomfort to grab my arm. He leads me to a chaise longue and pushes me down. “Sit here, calm down.”

I laugh breathlessly at that. “Oh yeah, calm down, easy as that,” I say, still feeling overwhelmed.

He huffs out a laugh at that, and squats in front of me, hands balanced on my knees. “Seriously there’s nothing to be scared of in here. I’ll find you a suit, and maybe some shoes, and we’ll get out of here. No problem yeah?”

“Yeah,” I find myself nodding along with him, though really I’m getting lost in his words. His lips form them perfectly, tongue against teeth in perfect articulation. I’ve never really put much stock into noticing accents and tone, but something in the way he talks makes me feel fuzzy inside. I am mesmerised.

“Just breathe,” he reminds me. He taps my knee with his hand before straightening up. “I get it though, I hate this place too,” he throws over his shoulder. “Way too much…” he trails off, waving his hands above his head exuberantly. I know what he means by it, it is too much. I wish I could see the face he pulled to accompany that gesture. but his back is to me and he almost immediately dives back into the trunk.

Now that I have decided panicking wasn’t helping any, I take the time to admire the stretch of the back of Baz’s thigh as he leans down. As he roots around, I can faintly make out the ridges of his shoulder blades through his shirt, too. I bite my lip at the sight.

“A-ha!” He exclaims, pulling a grey suit out of the trunk with a flourish. He makes his way back towards me and I hastily school my face. Not all men are receptive to being appreciated by another man. I’ve found that out the hard way a few times.

“Here,” he says, thrusting the cloth at me. “Put it on.”

As I take it off him he turns away again, this time to a wardrobe that seems to be full of starched shirts. As he paws through them, I drop my own trousers to replace them with the grey ones that came with the suit. They are a little long and snug around my thighs. It’s actually quite indecent but still miles better than anything I could have come up with in such short notice.

Baz has found a shirt, though how he selected this one out of the seemingly identical shirts on the hangers behind him I have no idea. He’s holding out to me, so I shrug of the shirt I am wearing and drop it down next to the trousers I have left abandoned on the floor. When I look back up, the arm holding the shirt has sagged down. Baz’s eyes are trained on my chest and his lips are slightly parted. I can feel a flush spread across my chest, seeming to start from the place his gaze is centred. The spreading redness seems to rouse him, as he sucks in a wet breath and snaps his teeth shut.

The shirt is extended towards me once again, and I notice a faint tremble in his hand this time.

Huh, I guess maybe Baz is not one of those men that would mind being appreciated by another man after all. As soon as I take the shirt from him though he turns away again. I don the shirt and the jacket, both of which feel very tight over my shoulders. I won’t be able to raise my arms above my head in this without the fear of popping a few stitches. Baz seems to have taken this time to locate some shoes and a belt, though his back is still carefully towards me.

I clear my throat. “What do you think?”

_Baz_

If I hadn’t just seen Simon Snow shirtless, I would say that him in a grey suit is maybe one of the best things I have ever seen.

It definitely doesn’t fit, to the point of indecency, but that’s nothing a few spells won’t fix.

I school my face into indifference as I cast an eye over him.

“Do you trust me?” I ask, pulling my wand out.

I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He nods soundlessly.

“ **A perfect fit** ,” I incant, waving the wand over the fabric. The jacket expands and ripples, before sucking into Snow’s shape perfectly. I have to cast it again over the shirt and trousers. It’s hard to keep concentration though, when Simon’s eyes widen in wonder at the clothes moulding to his body. I make him try on the shoes too. These don’t require any spells, fortunately, because the spelling of leather is always a little tricky.

Now that the suit fits him like a glove, I revise my previous thought. Simon in a grey suit is definitely one of the best things I have ever seen.

“There,” I say, looking him over again, just to check how well the spell is holding. (Nothing to do with just wanting to look my fill, not at all). “You’re all set for tonight. Put your own clothes back on for now so you don’t ruin these.”

I quickly get out of the room before he gives me another unintentional strip tease. Not that I don’t want to see, I just don’t think I could control myself a second time. It was hard enough the first time, my hand shook in the restraint I needed to not reach out and touch and _take._

In the other room I take a moment to just breathe. I had this problem with the stable boy. I just have this gnawing want inside of me, and it demands that I take and take. I don’t want to lose Simon Snow in the whirlpool of my desires. He is a ray of sunshine in my otherwise dreary life and it would do no good to smother him now. I must remain aloof and distant. I must pretend to be the straight man my father wishes I were. Even if it felt like dying every day, at least now there’s Simon to remind me that I am alive.

He comes out of my room, dressed once more in his pauper’s rags. The suit is carefully folded and draped over one arm, the shoes held in the other.

“I don’t know where to put these,” he mumbles. He’s looking self-conscious again, like he did when he first stepped into the room. I frown at his words. Surely he has some kind of suitcase to put them in. I ask as much and once more his skin flushes a brilliant scarlet as he shakes his head.

“Well then where do you keep your clothes?” I ask incredulously.

“I have an old potato sack that doubles as a pillow. It has all my belongings except my winter boots,” he mutters to the floor. “I don’t have much of value, so it’s never really been a problem.”

He shrugs to himself then, still looking down. I want to lift his chin with the tips of my fingers, so much so they itch with desire. But I have promised myself, aloof and distant, so I resist. A hand on the shoulder wouldn’t be too friendly though, would it?

I touch him there instead. I am weak.

He looks up at me then from beneath his eyelashes, shame writ across his face in rushing blood. I have no idea what I have done to deserve such a creature as he.

“Well then,” I assert. “You can just leave them here and we can get ready for dinner together.”

At that he smiles up at me and leans into the hand that is still inexplicably touching him. I am so weak.

To add insult to injury, he bites down on his bottom lip, head tilted bashfully. I find myself zeroing in on his teeth sinking into the soft flesh. How I wish to be biting that lip. How I wish to _be_ that lip. But it has been released and he is talking again.

“Pardon?” I ask. I haven’t heard a word.

He chuckles breathily and asks again, “what shall we do with the rest of the day?”

He wants to spend the day together? I shouldn’t but I have already established myself as a weak, weak man, as evidenced by the fact he is still warming my palm.

That is how we end up walking around the outside decks. I don’t say much at first, but he is more than willing to fill the silence with stories of his adventures. He’s been all over the world, it seems, and seen so many things. He tells me of his time at the Moulin Rouge, which leads to some titillating tales.

“Jean-Luc was very proficient with pleasure spells, I had never felt anything like it!” He exclaims, hands thrown up in the air. He turns his wide grin towards me but I have stopped a few paces behind him. I can feel my face turning ashen as the implication hits me. It was no doubt a male name, and it sounds like he’s talking from first-hand experience. But that would mean he had felt the pleasure of another man.

“Baz?” he calls, hesitantly. “You alright? Was it something I said?”

I think I might be jealous. Of his experiences, of his freedom, but moreover of his lover. I feel my face crack into a brittle smile. “Of course, I’m fine,” I say weakly. “I just can’t imagine it. I wish I could have seen that.”

As soon as it’s out of my mouth I hear the words for what they are. An admission of my perversion. I go to try to retract them but Simon is guffawing loudly and slapping my back, and suddenly it doesn’t seem so terrible. After all if he could do it with no shame, then why did I feel so guilty over just thinking about it? Maybe I shouldn’t. Afterall my father is wrong about a lot of things, so what’s one more? I start to laugh along with Simon. We lean into each other as we catch our breaths.

Feeling less like I’m about to burst from my skin than I have in years, I continue our meandering. We walk a little closer this time, our knuckles occasionally brushing. It gives me tingles up my arm every time. It feels like the dam has broken, and I start to tell Simon about my family expectations. I tell him about the family dynamics he might see tonight, and how my father is pushing me towards Agatha Wellbelove.

“She’s the lady you were walking with yesterday morning?” he asks. I didn’t know he had been watching us yesterday. I know I noticed him, but he was making a racket. “She’s really quite beautiful.”

“Sure,” I roll my eyes. “If you like that sort of thing.” It comes out as a little bitter, but I think he understands what I mean. Some of his adventures may have been with beautiful European women, but I have only eyes for men. I can see him nodding thoughtfully to himself.

We both look out thoughtfully over the waves. His arm is pressed against mine, and it feels warmer than the sun on my face.

_Simon_

I feel relaxed. I had freaked out earlier but after spending time with Baz I feel reassured that I can make it through dinner this evening. I could, as long as he’s by my side. It’s like magnetism. I feel drawn to him.

He has all but told me that he’s gay. I know it’s hard to come right out and say, especially for someone like him who seems weighed down by his family expectations. As he spoke of his father and the expectation of marriage, his eyes held that unfathomable sadness from last night. I guess that’s probably what pushed him over the edge, almost literally.

I feel an odd combination of sadness and jealousy for him. He has so much but there’s so little he can do with it. But mostly I just find him captivating. Anything he gives me, a huff of laughter or better a whole sentence, feels like a he’s adding another butterfly to my stomach.

Though apparently my stomach is not quite satisfied with being full of butterflies, because it interrupts the peaceful moment to rumble loudly. I look down at my body with a laugh. Baz looks startled too.

“Hungry?” he smirks, one eyebrow raised in friendly mocking.

“Yeah, a little,” I say sheepishly, rubbing the back of my head like I do when I feel shy. I notice, like the last time I did that, Baz’s eyes trace over muscles in my arm. I flex a little and enjoy watching Baz’s tongue poke out ever so slightly to trace his lower lip. He’s definitely interested. It makes me preen a little.

I slowly lower my arm again, his eyes wandering back over to my face.

“We could go down to the kitchens,” he suggests. “See if there’s any food going spare.”

As far as I’m aware the kitchen is closed to non-crew members. I mention as much to Baz but he just pushes my shoulder and smiles. A real, proper smile.

“Come on now, Snow, where’s your sense of adventure?” He laughs. His hand trails down my arm tantalisingly, and before it fully drops I catch it in my own.

“Alright then,” I reply, tugging him along where we’re joined. “But we’ll have to be sneaky.”

We duck through doorways, giggling like school children as we dodge being seen by the other passengers. At one point we press against each other in a semi-covered alcove in a richer section of the ship. I can feel his entire body as a hot line at my side, and he towers over me with his extra three inches, his breath fluttering in my eyelashes. It’s intimate and exciting. I can feel his heart thudding in time with mine just underneath my collarbone.

We make it to the kitchen door, fingers still tangled and tripping over each other in our closeness. The door is clearly marked “Staff Only” which makes me hesitate, but Baz just raises a supercilious eyebrow, straightens up and pushes the door open as if he owns the place, dragging me along in his wake.

The inside of the kitchen is fairly empty, just one person at the end of the row of shiny counters and she is standing next to a violently bubbling pot, so she doesn’t turn at our entrance. We glance at each other, him smirking and me smiling, and both drop down behind the closest counter. He’s in an awkward crouch, carefully keeping his wrinkle-free trousers from touching the vaguely grimy ground, whereas I have dropped straight to my knees, dirt be damned. We untangle our hands so we can keep our balance. I use my now free hand to point towards the left and we start to shuffle towards the stack of pasties on the side table. We take one in each hand, muffling our giggles in our shoulders, and shuffle back to the door. Just as we stand to leave, the lady at the pot turns and shouts after us. I gasp out “nothing to see here,” but my magic has abandoned me, crashing the pots down around us like an invisible puppy bounding along in my wake. Instead we run full force towards the door and out, round the corner. We slow to a jog down a few more corridors before leaning back against the wall to catch our breaths.

I look up at his flushed face and start laughing again, and his rich timbre joining in after a moment. I lean into him again and rest my head on his shoulder, muffling my giggles in his neck. As I turn my head, ready to pull back, his breath catches in his throat a little. There’s an endless moment when we get trapped in a bubble, breathing the same air, but a voice echoes down another corridor, shattering the moment. With a ragged exhale we straighten up. I hadn’t realised how close our faces had drifted together.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I say, nodding my head down an empty corridor we have yet to explore. We follow along for a while, navigated the twists and turns blindly, until we end up in a hallway with a small two-seat sofa. I collapse down on it, ready to devour one of the pasties in my hand.

The spiced meat and vegetables are flavourful and rich. The pasty is gone in three bites, so I lick the gravy that had leaked out over my fingers with a wet groan. A strangled gasping brings my attention back to Baz, who looks like he’s frozen halfway through bringing his own lunch to his mouth, jaw hanging open and hand dangling in mid-air.

I clear my throat and the spell is broken. Baz drops to the seat next to me, bouncing a little as he lands. It’s probably the least graceful thing I’ve seen him do, and I’ve seen him have a panic attack.

“These are really good,” I say artlessly. He nods wordlessly and finally takes a delicate bite. He frowns down at the pasty and hums thoughtfully around his mouthful. Then he takes a bigger bite, more enthusiastic than the first. I smile and return to my second pasty, this time savouring the flavours. I’m still finished before Baz.

He’s watching as I go to brush the crumbs off, but holds me back with the back of his hand. He quickly polishes off the last bite of his first pasty before breaking the second in half and handing one half over to me. Our fingers brush again as I take it and, even though we had just spent ten minutes holding hands running to the kitchens, a rush of electricity sparks under my skin where we touch. I know he feels it too by the soft inhalation.

We finish off our lunch side-by-side, silent but for our chewing. It’s not awkward though, not in the slightest. It feels like we already know each other, like we knew each other in another life.

I’m just wiping my hand down on my already dirty trousers when Baz stands. He offers his hand to me. I don’t know if it’s to help me get up or just to hold again, so I push my luck and weave my fingers between his before heaving myself off of the (very comfortable) cushion.

We wander more sedately through the corridors this time. We’re lower down on the ship and the hallways are closer together, which makes it less suspicious for us to be standing so close. Not to mention, I don’t know most of the people down here, and they wouldn’t care what two men got up to either way. At least not in any way that affected us. The best thing about being poor is that people kept to themselves and that was that.

Baz startles at the first few people we passed on the lower decks, trying to pull away when there’s nowhere to hide, but I just pull him closer and let them brush by. Eventually he stops trying, his shoulders dropping incrementally lower the further into the bowels of the ship we get. (The further away from his father too, no doubt).

Our conversation picks up again swiftly, this time turning to poetry and art. I’m not so uncultured as to be lost in this conversation, though it does send my heart swooping into my gut when he starts to recite Keats in a low rumble. I can’t return the favour but I tug him along to one of the storage rooms I found yesterday, the one with the broken lock, that is filled with priceless paintings and one particularly ugly marble bust. We spend the whole afternoon, making snide comments on brushstrokes and funny looking cats. I have never laughed so much in my life.

Occasionally I catch him staring at my face. But it’s alright because he catches me doing it right back often enough. In the low light of the store room, each of his features take on an other-worldly appearance. He’s like an angel, or a demon, come to save me or tempt me. I don’t care which. All this talk of poetry and art has made me wax lyrical about him. It’s new and different for me, but it feels right.

_Baz_

It's getting late. We start to head back up to my room.

I'm looking forward to seeing Snow in my suit again. (I'm really hoping that my father can find it in himself to be civil this evening, and Snow cleaning up a bit with a suit on will only help with that. No other reason). I just need to remember to keep my hands off him. Since he revealed to me his interest in men, I have found it hard to resist him, and I think he is the same way. We've almost kissed several times; each time has sent my head spinning, probably from holding my breath. My lips are tingling in anticipation of when they will finally touch his.

There’s no rush though, we still have several days of passage and I really hope we can build a new life in America. I can run away, just like he did. We can run together.

We are approaching the deck that hosts my quarters now, so I sigh and detangle our hands. He looks down forlornly, feeling the loss as keenly as I do, but he still smiles up at me and nudges his shoulder to mine so all is forgiven.

I thought forward and had washed my hair that morning, but it seems Snow hadn’t. Apparently it hadn’t even occurred to him to wash his hair – he has to share a communal wash station on the lower deck and it’s so much hassle he just didn’t bother. I hate the feeling of greasy hair, I have no idea how he can leave it unattended for days like that.

I give him free reign of my personal bathroom – there’s even a full bath tub in there, which I see him running his hand along. I silently hand him some bath salts and soaps and head out. The rest I’m sure he can figure out.

I run through my routine to get ready. My hair, being shoulder length and prone to flicking at the ends in an unattractive manner, has been windblown and mussed by the events of the day so takes some working. I also have a skin care regime, the salt from the ocean drying the stretch of skin between my eyebrows and chapping my lips. I take my time applying the creams and lotions my stepmother has imported for me from Italy.

The problem with this routine is that it is mindless, allowing my thoughts to wander. And unfortunately for my lower areas, it has wandered in a very specific direction, namely the beautiful boy who is by now probably naked and wet in my bathtub.

The problem is compounded when said boy steps out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam with a sinfully small towel clinging desperately to his hips. If I thought seeing him shirtless this morning was a wicked temptation, it’s nothing compared to now. The towel hides very little of his lumps and bumps and is sliding deliciously up a very toned thigh. (You could tell he had traversed the length of Europe on those legs, such is the power in them). His hair is dripping too, water trailing over his pectorals, tracing the grooves of his biceps… My mind goes as foggy as the room he has exited from, like white noise and every voice I’ve ever heard shouting at once.

“Baz?” he ventures. I think he asked me a question but I couldn’t hear it over my own clamouring thoughts. “… the clothes?” he prompts.

Ah, yes I had put them in the trunk at the end of my bed. But I can’t get up to give them to him, or he will realise the extent to which he has affected me. Instead I clear my throat and gesture over to the corner. “Over there, in the trunk.”

I turn back to the mirror and busy myself with the final lotion in my routine. It doesn’t take this much concentration and rubbing in, but I can’t very well watch him.

“Can I borrow some underwear?” He calls out to me from the corner. Merlin and Morgana, he shall be the end of me. (But oh, what a way to go).

“Top drawer of the dresser,” I throw over my shoulder, still not turning. Now the blood seems to have rushed to my face too, so there’s double the reason not to look.

I will myself calm. First, I try to think of the ocean and cold showers but, when that doesn’t work, I know can rely on the image of my grandmother in her under things I had forever ingrained into my memory. She had started to lose her mind by the end of her life, and often forgot to dress before leaving her room. And it does work, my body shuddering with revulsion instead of barely checked desire.

“I’m decent,” Snow says. I finally turn to look at him. Wrong again Simon, I think, you look utterly _indecent_. My eyes roam his body freely, but stop short at his throat. While it is tantalising for his swan neck to be on display with his top buttons undone, dinner means a tie. I go over to the dresser and select a blue that will complement his eyes and the undertones of the suit fabric and hand it to him.

He stares at the fabric in his hand.

“Crowley, Snow, it’s a bowtie. It won’t bite,” I roll my eyes.

“I know,” he mumbles, colour flooding his cheeks. “I – I just- I don’t know how to tie it.”

Oh. I’ve been wearing bowties since the day I could walk, so it never occurred to me this would be a problem for him. We really are two very different people.

“Here,” I say softly, turning him so he faces the mirror, his back aligned with my front. I am grateful for my extra inches now as I tuck the tie around his neck and smoothly go through the motions of a simple knot. I linger there a little longer than necessary but neither of us pull away. His hair smells of my shampoo, cedar and bergamot. A possessive curl makes itself known in my stomach.

“I should get dressed” I sigh against his ear. He turns, his damp curls brushing my cheek. “And you should brush your hair.”

I go to the bathroom with my suit, not wanting Snow to see me quite as vulnerable as he had allowed me to see him. He would no doubt notice my jutting bones. I have never cared for that sort of thing before, but now I feel guilty. How could I let so much food go to waste when people like him took each meal as a gift? I disgust myself. I had thought I was rebelling against my wealth, but I had been languishing in privilege as much as the next fat cat.

Once we are both suitably dressed and groomed, Snow and I make our way to the dining hall. We still have a few minutes before our allotted time, so we walk slowly through the carpeted halls. I stuff my hands in my trouser pockets to avoid the temptation of brushing them against his, hanging loosely by his sides. He seems relaxed still, but I’m sure that will change.

_Simon_

Baz looks amazing in a suit. It accentuates his long lines and I can’t help but stare a little. He seems distracted though, so I don’t think he notices.

As we walk to the dining hall Baz’s hands are in his front trouser pockets. While I’m sad I can’t hold them like earlier, or even brush against them which could be justified in company as an accident, it pulls the fabric taut over his backside. In the narrower corridors I let him go first so I have a chance to properly ogle it.

By the time we reach the opulent stairway to the dining hall I’ve all but forgotten that I’m to have dinner with the poshest people imaginable. Baz’s body really does wonders for clearing my mind of all thought.

As we enter the room my breath catches. If I thought Baz’s rooms were too much, it had nothing on this. Comparing Baz’s rooms to this hall was like comparing bungalow to a castle. A comparison which perhaps didn’t paint me in the best light. In that scenario I would be the rat in the ditch on the other side of the hedge. Every surface is covered in deep velvets and polished woods and shiny silver.

Baz, in his bespoke suit and slicked back hair, matches the image perfectly. He turns to me, probably wondering why I’ve stopped. He takes one look at the awe on my face and a tiny smirk appears.

“Bit much isn’t it,” he says, rolling his eyes. I nod, silently. I don’t think I could talk if I tried.

He leads me to a table set with several places. As we reach it, a hubbub of voices echoes through the hall doors as a group of finely dressed people enter. They are making their way over and I recognise Baz’s father among them from last night. (Was is really just last night? It feels like I have known Baz for an eternity).

I’m pleased to note that Penny is also here. Another friendly face will help calm my nerves, and hopefully I will not make myself look like a fool in front of Baz’s family.

Baz’s father, Malcolm I think Penny called him, has started directing people to their seats. This seems like a normal occurrence given that everyone is just sitting where he points. I will never understand the social niceties of the upper class. Who is this guy to tell people where they can eat? He’s trying to usher Baz in a seat between his stepmother and the pretty girl he was with yesterday, Agatha.

“Father, please, I would rather sit with Simon,” he insists. “He is here because of me, after all.”

Malcolm doesn’t seem pleased that his son has openly contradicted him in front of all his peers. He scowls, mouth twisting and looks as if he might say something when I butt in.

“Please, sir, I would like to sit with Baz.” I try to make my face as convincing as possible but I’m not sure if it’s working. “I don’t know anyone else really-”

“Come sit here,” Penny interrupts, pulling me down next to her. There’s a seat between myself and Agatha that Baz takes, pushing past his father with perhaps a little more force than necessary. I don’t mind though, I’m just glad I’ve gotten past the first hurdle, though who knew that simply sitting down would cause so much tension.

Once everyone is settled, food is brought out to us on steaming platters. Serving men and women mill around us, topping up glasses of wine and providing fresh plates each time one is cleared. There are multiple courses. I wish I knew how many there would be, so I wouldn’t have filled up on the first few. When the dessert comes out, I have successfully avoided the light conversation going on around me by virtue of my mouth being constantly full. There are plates of French pastries and various flavoured creams accompanying fluffy cakes. I take a small mouthful of the cake closest to me and the sweetness of the sponge explodes against the tartness of the cherry sauce that’s drizzled on top. I’ve never tasted a cake so lovely, it makes me want to cry that I can’t eat more. I valiantly try to finish it all off, but my stomach is fit to burst so I just pick.

“Are you ok, Simon?” Penny asks me. “You look forlorn.”  
I sigh. “I’m fine, just… I wish I had known to leave room for dessert.”

I stare down at my plate sadly. Penny laughs at me, but not in a cruel way.

Baz, who seems to have overheard our conversation, turns away from Agatha who had been finishing up a story about the horses at her family home. “It’s ok Snow,” he says. “Next time we eat together, we’ll have dessert first.”

“You can do that?” I ask incredulously.

“We’re on the Titanic, we can do anything!” Penny declares. “In fact, I shall see to it that we shall have a meal of just dessert before the journey is through!”

Now that I have stopped stuffing my face and started talking, I seem to have attracted an audience.

“So tell me Mr. Snow,” Baz’s stepmother says, leaning forward so I could see her better.

“Please call me Simon,” I insist.

“Very well Simon, then you must call me Daphne,” she returns with a kind smile. “But tell me, Simon, what is it you do?”

“Oh, I, uh.” I’m not sure how to respond. I don’t really _do_ anything. I’m running away from my horrible father and I pick up odd jobs in return for food and board. I rely on the kindness of strangers and luck to see me through to another sunrise. Instead I say, “I’m a traveller.”

“A traveller?” Malcolm says sceptically, with not a small hint of derision. “What exactly does that entail?”  
“Well,” I start. “I, I, go from place to place and do whatever work needs to be done there. I’m really good with my hands so I can help out mages with the things that magic can’t fix.”

There’s an odd ripple around the table that makes me think I might have said the wrong thing. I look to Baz and his face has gone tight, almost withdrawn.

“Things that magic can’t fix,” Malcolm says icily. “I can’t imagine that anyone would need such a service if they were a good enough mage, but then not everyone is.”  
He sniffs and turns his face towards Baz. “This is why we need to keep magic in the family. Good breeding and strong bloodlines. No need for such… handymen.”  
Baz looks livid now. He pushes his chair back sharply and stands.

“Of course, father,” he grits out. “Now if you don’t mind, I need some air.”

Agatha’s mother, who had taken the place that Baz had refused between Daphne and Agatha herself, is nudging her in the side. I can hear their whispered argument.

“But mother, I’d rather stay here,” Agatha whines. “I don’t want to go out in the cold with him.”

I tune them out though, because Baz still hasn’t left. He’s looking down at me expectantly.

“I’ll go with you,” I hear myself announce. “You might need saving again.”  
 _Let me save you from this too_ , I think. _Let me save you from your family. Let me take you away._

We quickly make our escape. As soon as I’m out of sight from the dining hall, I lean against the wall and let out a long exhale. Baz is reclining against the opposite wall, eyes shut, head tilted back. He no longer looks murderous, but he’s a far cry from ok. Honestly, if that’s what dinner was like yesterday, I don’t blame him for wanting to jump. Then again, there are no more of those delicious desserts in the ocean, so maybe not.

_Baz_

Sometimes my father says things and it makes me so angry. His words contradicted by his actions, by his very _being._ There are Normals in his side of the family, and my mother was strongly advised not to pursue marriage with such a lowly mage. He had no money, no prospects and his magic is mediocre at best. I get all my magical talent from my mother.

The only thing I can thank him for is this receding widows peak and a lifetimes worth of psychological problems.

Snow has followed me out. I peak over at him. I wouldn’t blame him if he was looking on me in disgust, tarred by the same brush as my father, but instead his gaze is soft and forgiving. It wasn’t even me being insulted, and yet somehow I am the one who seems to be most affected. You’d think by now I would be used to my father’s… _bullshit._

And it was bullshit. Snow had only done magic around me a couple of times, but it was potent. There was no doubt as to his magical calibre. To be insulted for seeing a need and filling it was beyond ridiculous.

“I’m sorry about all that,” I eventually sigh out, pinching the bridge of my nose. Snow just huffs out a laugh.

“S’alright,” he says. I look at him over my own fingers and his infuriatingly kind smile has only grown.

He steps closer to me then, hand reaching out to tug my hand away from my face. “C’mon let’s get out of here.”

For the third time today Snow takes my hand and tows me along the hallway. I’ve decided I don’t care if my family sees us right now, so I squeeze his hand and push closer to him, our arms aligned.

“Where are we going?” I ask bemusedly.

“You’ll see,” he smiles lopsidedly. It seems he does have a destination in mind though as he unerringly leads us once more down into the bowels of the Titanic. Transitioning from the wide staircases of the upper decks to the narrow metal stairways of the lower feels like being swallowed by a great beast. Down, down, down we plunge, right into the stinking hot stomach.

We end up in a crowded room that smells of boiled meat and body odour. There are so many people in here it makes my heart clench painfully. For a moment I feel the urge to pull away from Snow’s hand, to hide myself away from these people who would surely look upon us, upon _me_ in disgust. But before I can do so, Simon pulls me further into the room and is engulfed by the mob, our linked hands the only way I can tell where he is, so I grip tighter instead.

No one pays us any mind. In fact there are several couples of all shapes and combinations around us doing things far more indecent than holding hands. I feel shocked by the displays, but oddly comforted too. I was right: All it took was the shackles of poverty to be free.

We broke out of the crowd into a bubble of space. I quickly realise that this is a make-shift dance floor, as evidenced by the people skipping and twisting lithely around each other. Over the din of laughter, I can just about make out a guitar and what might be a penny whistle, all accompanied by enthusiastic table banging. That’s the other thing I notice: There are tightly packed benches piled high with dirty bowls and tin cups. There are no separate seats, just long planks of wood attached to the table legs. It is so unlike the stuffy, formal dinner we’ve just come from it startles a laugh from me.

Snow looks over at me then, eyes sparkling with my laughter. A mischievous smile takes over his face and he uses our still joined hands to pull me into the dance. I feel panic, but only because I have no idea what this dance is. However, it becomes quickly apparent that neither does Snow, or if he does know it he’s just a terrible dancer.

We bounce around, arms up and legs akimbo. I can feel myself getting warm in time to the flush rising in Snow’s cheeks. He tugs off his jacket and lays it over a nearby table, so I do the same. These two jackets probably cost more than most of the people here have seen in a year. I also tug off my bow tie, deftly undoing the knots with fingers quick with years of practise. I look over to Snow, who looks like he might be choking himself on his. I swoop in to rescue him from his ineptitude. (If I stand closer than necessary it’s so as to not interrupt the dance continuing on around us).

His long neck is once more right there. I feel my mouth start to water when I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Our eyes connect, and his look hungry. I pull back, my hands skating over his shoulders and down his arms to take both of his. I back blindly back into the dancers just as the guitar starts another excited flurry of chords. Snow smiles.

We dance for a little longer, but I am starting to flag. My spirit is willing but it has been a long day. Snow seems to be in the same boat though, and he starts to lean more heavily against me with each song, until we are merely swaying, my hands on his waist and his arms draped over my shoulders.

Our eyes hold.

He’s leaning up, my head already tilted down to his on its own accord.

And finally, _finally,_ he’s kissing me.

His mouth is a furnace, and I am burning in his flames. My hands push through his curls, grasping desperately as he sucks on my lower lip. I press impossibly closer. A deep groan reverberates through our mouths, coming from one or both of us I can’t tell. He starts to do this thing with his chin, making my stomach swoop and my fingers tingle. He’s so good at this.

If the ship sunk now, I would die happy.

_Simon_

Kissing Baz is just as heady as I had been imagining all day.

I feel dizzy. With relief that he finally leant forward instead of pulling back like he has been all day. With the blood rushing to my lips, making them tingle, and to my scalp where he’s lightly tugging on my hair. With a lack of oxygen. One of us should pull back to breathe but I can’t bring myself to stop.

Instead of pulling back, I thread my fingers through his silky hair. His scalp is damp from sweat, probably from the dancing, but the strands are smooth and soft. Probably after years of being treated and conditioned. I didn’t even know half the names of the products in the bathroom, sticking with basic things I could identify as soap, but they were all clearly used.

We were both gasping against each other at this point, neither of us willing to be the one who gave in. Instead I get the idea to move my kisses to his cheek, his jaw, his neck. He must be sensitive here because his grip in my hair tightens. Pleasure sparks down from the crown of my head, spreading all over my body. I smile into his neck, biting down on the juncture where it joins his shoulder. I’ve wanted to do that since he took of that ridiculous bow tie.

He’s tugging me back up to his lips though, and I go willingly.

I can’t say how long we stand there, right in the middle of the mess hall, snogging like teenagers. It’s heaven. I smile into the kisses. I can feel his lips turning up in answer. I wonder what he’s thinking.

_Baz_

Simon, Simon, Simon.

All I can think is his name. All I can smell is his magic and musk, mingled deliciously in with my own scents from the soaps he used. All I can taste is his tongue.

We could have been here for minutes or hours or days and I wouldn’t know the difference. The rest of the world has ceased to exist.

But all good things must eventually come to an end.

An enthusiastic dancer who smells strongly of alcohol knocks into us, breaking us apart long enough for us to remember we aren’t alone here. Simon smiles up at me sheepishly as we disentangle. When our hands are free from hair and shirts though, I immediately take his and dart in for another quick peck, or three. The third is interrupted with a huge yawn from Simon, and his startled face reminds me of a kitten I used to play with at the back of the family estate, cute and disgruntled.

“Let’s get you to bed,” I say, directly into his ear as it’s still loud in here. He turns round eyes on me and I suddenly realise what that sounds like. I want to say, _no not like that_ , but he’s already leading me away from the dance floor, via the table we put our jackets on, and back through the crowd towards the door.

Once we’re in the corridor I make sure to clarify what I meant.

“Simon, I meant you should sleep. It’s been a long day. Not that I don’t – I mean I _would_ –“ I stammer. I’m usually so eloquent but it feels like my brain has turned to mush. He just smiles sedately at me, a cat with a canary feather stuck to his lip.

“I know,” he says. “Walk me to my room?”

I just nod and we start walking. After the noise of the dancing room, it quiet of the corridor is oppressive. Our footsteps in comparison echo loudly. Still, I feel no need to fill the silence with idle chatter. His hand is warm in mine, and my lips are still swollen. That is enough.

After rounding several corners, we reach an unmarked door that looks identical to all the others on this side of the ship. Simon pulls me up short, causing me to swing bodily into him. I’m not sure if this is intentional, or not. I’m not complaining. He brushes my hair from my face where it had fallen and holds me there. We both lean in.

The kiss is sweet and slow. Nowhere near as hungry as the ones we had just shared.

“Goodnight,” he whispers against my lips, then falls back through the now open door, his hand on the handle, and he’s gone.

“Goodnight Simon,” I whisper, but no one hears it.

I float back up to my rooms, blissfully unaware of my surroundings as I am caught up in remembering how we had touched. I had never been kissed before tonight. While I wonder why I haven’t been doing this all along, I am glad that my first was Simon Snow. Sweet, courageous, rebellious Simon Snow.

That night I dream of blue eyes, tousled curls and a smile as bright as the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ship-wide shenanigans ensue ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There is a moment in this fic where a character throws up.

_Baz_

I wake up late, sun streaming across my bed through the lace on the window. For once I feel well rested. My legs ache from the dancing, and my _lips…_

They stretch into a self-satisfied smile.

I remember him telling me at some point last night that he would take breakfast with Penelope on the upper deck, so I waste no time getting up and dressed. I usually take such pride in my appearance, but not this morning. I throw on the same casual outfit I had discarded when getting ready for dinner last night and scrape my hair up into a tie instead of carefully slicking it back.

By the time I get up to the deck, it’s clear that Simon and Penelope have been here for a while as the small breakfast dishes are mostly cleared. Simon looks over then, his face splitting into the biggest grin when he locks eyes with me. I can feel the side of my face ticking upwards in response. Penelope laughs at us.

“Baz!” he calls, waving me over to them. I walk sedately over, quelling my urge to run to him (and maybe jump him). As I take a seat from a nearby table and join them, Simon pushes a plate towards me with a couple of sandwiches and a scone.

“I saved these for you,” he says lowly, pink dusting high on his cheekbones fetchingly.

“So Basil,” Penelope starts with a smirk. “Simon here was just telling me about all the things you did yesterday together.”  
My face drops, and I turn my wide eyes onto Simon. Did he out me? Even if it was to Penelope Bunce, the person who everyone in my father’s circle took the least seriously. But he is also wide-eyed and shaking his head at me. Penelope snorting indelicately into her teacup breaks our eye contact.

“Mmhmm,” she continues as if she hadn’t noticed the moment that had passed between me and Simon, though the twinkle in her eye makes me sure she didn’t. “I had no idea there was such an art collection on this ship. Who’d have thought there was so much for it to require a whole room! Bigger than Simon’s bunk if you hear him tell it, and he shares that with three other people.”

I let her words wash over me, calming down a little, though I’m still suspicious about how much she thinks she knows. She doesn’t seem disgusted though, like my father would, so that’s reassuring at least.

“So Penelope, if none of that art is yours, what are you spending all your new money on?” I artlessly try to steer the conversation away. Penelope must be feeling particularly benevolent and she allows it.

“Please, call me Penny,” she insists, and then goes into a rant about funding women’s rights movements and the ridiculousness that is wasting your money on hideous art works painted by other rich people. I happen to agree with her on this topic. I hate how much my father wastes when there are people out there, like Simon, who deserve the money so much more.

“It is so refreshing to hear that from someone of your background, Basil,” she says to me. “It gives me hope for the next generation.”

It makes me feel squirmy and warm inside. It feels like validation. I think I like it.

_Simon_

Baz and Penny hit it off. They’ve been talking together for nearly an hour now about social justice or something. I stopped listened after a while, not feeling able to join in. I made a comment about how truly awful some of the paintings we saw were yesterday, but that was the last thing I really understood. I don’t really mind though.

In the late morning light, Baz looks radiant. His hair is up today but a few tendrils are escaping to caress his cheeks. How I wish to be those scraps of hair. I have to sit on my hands to stop myself from brushing them back.

His eyes are dancing and teeth flashing. He’s so invigorated by the conversation, and it makes him look as alive as he was when he was dancing last night. I can’t look away now just like I couldn’t then.

I must sigh out loud, because they both turn to me looking amused.

“Boring you, Snow?” Baz smirks.

“Oh, no – I, I’m fi-fine,” I stutter out, feeling like a rabbit in the headlights.

“Oh it’s getting late, I should get back to my paperwork,” Penny smiles mischievously. “I’ll let you two, uh, get to your day too.” She winks at me from behind Baz’s head and I can feel my face heat further. She knows too much. I hadn’t come right out and told her about what happened yesterday, but I had gushed so much unable to stop the words tumbling out of my mouth. I’m pretty sure she has a good idea what is going on between us. She just patted the back of my hand and told me to make up a plate for him in case he joined us. I’m glad I did.

And now it was just the two of us again.

We start to meander in the direction of the bow as if by some unspoken agreement. It is quieter over here, probably because of the wind. Right at the far end, the railings joined in a peak. I half skip towards it, grinning back at Baz as I go. He just rolls his eyes, but I can see his mouth twitch as he tries not to smile at my childishness.

I clamber up onto the bottom rung of the railing, my arms flung out wide.

“Simon!” Baz calls, crashing into me from behind and holding tight, but I’m too busy laughing to recognise his panic.

“I feel like I’m flying,” I giggle, loving the feel of his arms against my waist. If I close my eyes I can imagine lifting off the earth, soaring through clouds at immeasurable speeds. For some reason I’m imagining great red leathery wings, like those of the dragon from a story book I had seen in the window of a shop as a child. If I had those I would be free to do anything I liked.

“I’m flying,” I say again, more to myself this time.

I can feel Baz arching up against me, using his height to his advantage, hooking his chin over my shoulder. With his face against mine, it feels like we’re the only two people in the whole world taking in the beautiful ocean horizon.

His breath is hot against my ear as he whispers against the wind. “You’re the king of the world, Simon.” 

I step down still in the circle of his arms. Time stands still for a perfect moment, but then he chuckles nervously looking around and stepping back, and the rest of the world intrudes once more.

“What are we going to do with ourselves for the rest of the day then?” I ask, our eyes meeting. Without someone to break us apart we could be here all day.

A stiff breeze passes over us, blowing some of the loose hair across Baz’s forehead and into his eyes. He tries to blow it out of the way frustratedly, but before he can succeed I lean across the gap he put between us and give into the urge to brush it behind his ear. I linger a little longer than someone would if they were just helping out a friend, but I doubt anyone is watching us that closely.

He licks his lips before answering. “We could explore some of the alcoves of the lower decks,” He says, raising his eyebrow suggestively. I nod and stand. I want to reach out to take his hand like I did yesterday, but I don’t want to raise anymore suspicion than we already have.

Baz looks furtively around, then grabs _my_ hand. I can feel my cheeks ache from smiling and allow myself to be towed through the corridors to the steps on the far side of the ship. We haven’t taken this particular staircase yet, and I wonder what we might find.

It doesn’t take long before we start giggling again. There’s just something about sneaking around with a beautiful boy that makes me feel so bubbly. I love the feeling. I’m pretty sure that one day I could fall in love with the boy who caused it too.

We find a short service corridor which ends in a blank wall. All the doors branching off are locked – we checked them all. Of course, either of us could get into those rooms if we really wanted to but it was much more exciting to try things the Normal way. At the last locked door, Baz crowds behind me, lips seeking my neck. It sends shivers down my spine. I can feel his tongue tracing along random spots, and it’s not till he reaches a specific point just under my jaw that I realise he’s tasting my moles. It’s oddly erotic and I’m glad for the door to lean against.

I slowly turn around in his arms, capturing his lips with my own. He pushes me back against the door, body tight and hot against me. My hands come up to scratch through the baby hairs at the top of his neck, not wanting to pull too much out of his hair tie. His hands are trailing against my waist, pushing and pulling at my shirt until it’s untucked from my trousers. Then his fingertips are brushing the bare skin of my sides, up to my rib cage and back down again. My breath starts to come shorter, blood rushing away from my head making me dizzy. Of course, it’s pooling somewhere else, so I try to shift my hips backwards. I don’t want to come across as too eager. Kissing Baz is wonderful, but his inexperience is quite obvious to me. He’s likely new to this, and I don’t want to scare him off just when I have him where I want him, underneath my hands.

As he starts to straighten up, though, his hips brush up against mine, and a startled groan erupts from his mouth at the hardness he finds there meeting his own. He pulls my hips closer, just to feel it again. It is now my turn to moan, pulling him back down into a kiss that is more tongue and teeth than lip. I can feel sense fleeing me as my whole being is drawn down to where we are pressed together, but this really isn’t the place. I don’t want Baz’s first time of anything being in a service corridor in a smelly part of the lower decks. He deserves better. (I would give him the whole world if I could).

I reluctantly push Baz back. He makes the smallest whine, which goes straight to my crotch, but I resist the urge to pull him back in.

“Not here, love,” I whisper against his lips. His cheeks grow pink at the endearment, but his eyes are still hazily focused on my lips. I give him one last peck before side-stepping him, ducking under his arm. “Come on let’s see what else there is here.”

“Really?” he asks incredulously at my retreating back. “You’re just going to leave me like this?”

“Well, I suppose we could always go back to your rooms now and see to your, ahem, problem,” I smirk down at his tented trousers. “But I thought you might not want your family to see you in such a state.”

He seems to be considering the pros and cons of my proposal. Just as I think he’s decided to consider exploring with me, he scowls and growls out, “fuck what my family might see, let’s go to my rooms.”

I wasn’t expecting that, but I’m certainly not complaining as he stalks past me, latching onto my hand to eagerly drag me back up to the surface.

_Baz_

I have no idea what I’m doing, but I know that I want him. And I know that I am tired of letting my family run my life. I am an adult and heading to the new world. If they want to cut me off, so be it. I’m going to run away when we reach the shore anyway, so who cares?

We’re still holding hands when we reach my door, and have miraculously not bumped into anyone on the way. As soon as we’re in my room I am on him once more. I take my time with the kisses this time. Now that we’re actually alone, I have time to turn them sweet.

I try to pour all the emotion I’ve felt over the last couple of days into them. The joy that Simon makes me feel, the relief, the freedom, the (dare I say it) love. It’s too soon of course to think of loving Simon but I feel like I could. I can feel him return it in kind, and I feel full of air at the thought. Smiling into the kiss, I start to carefully walk backwards, pulling him with me staying attached at the lips. My foot collides with the corner of the trunk at the bottom of the bed, and I am only saved from falling by Simon catching my flailing arms. He is laughing now, loud and beautiful, his head thrown back.

I can feel my cheeks heat for what seems the millionth time that day. I never usually blush, but somehow anything is possible with Simon. I find myself laughing with him though, clutching at his arms where they have me gripped and stable. We snort ungracefully into each other’s shoulders.

Eventually we calm enough to make our way to the bed. I push Simon down to the mattress, and it bounces under his weight. I am focused on his face, so I immediately notice the startled look pass over it, eyes slightly wider, mouth agape. He turns from me, looking down at where his hands are pressed against the Egyptian cotton sheet.

“I’ve never felt anything so soft in my life,” he whispers, awed, his hands running up and down the fabric. I chuckle lightly. Funny how in some matters Simon seems so worldly to me, experienced in intimate relationships by his own admission, and yet here he is beneath me, now leaning down to rub his face against my bedsheets of all things in childlike wonder. Everyone in my life is so boring, so predictable. Simon is an arctic blast of fresh air.

I clamber up onto the bed beside him, reaching over to rub his back. I had this idea of how this moment might go, when I gave into weakness and pictured myself with a man. I had always thought it would be serious, intense and brief and furtive. Not laughing next to this ridiculous man as he smiled up at me sideways. This was already so much better than anything I could imagine.

“Giving me a back massage, Baz?” Simon questions cheekily. My hands still from where they were restlessly rubbing between his shoulder blades.

“I can?” I say hesitantly. I’ve never done anything like that before, nor had it done to me. I am quite sure I’d be horrible at it. I tell Simon as much, but he just easily sits up and pushes me down to a similar position to where he was a moment before.

“Here, then let me.”

He starts up at my shoulders, my shirt and undervest muting his movements. He moves firmly down my spine, and fanning his large strong hands across my ribs. I relax into the feeling, melting down into the soft cotton beneath me.

As much as I feel self-conscious about how I look underneath my shirt and vest, I want Simon’s hands on my skin. I want to feel that heat directly. It’s another few minutes before I pluck up the courage to ask, “wouldn’t this be better without a shirt?”

At my question his hands still.

“Yes, but only if you want to,” he murmurs. He must have heard the tremble in my voice. To ensure my confidence doesn’t leave me as quickly as it came, I scramble at my buttons, hastily shucking all the excess fabric. Simon’s eyes linger on every exposed piece of flesh. As soon as I am bare, his hand comes up to hover over where my ribs form mountain ranges under my skin. He bites his lip and his eyes look sad when they come back up to meet mine, but he doesn’t comment and slowly guides me back down to resume his massage.

I was right, it feels a thousand times better without the shirt. I moan a little as his callouses scrape gently at my skin. He kneads down firmly, going all the way down to the hem of my trousers and back up to my neck. He carefully swung a leg over mine, delicately resting his weight on my thighs.

“Is this ok?”

I sigh my assent and he presses down more insistently.

I had forgotten about my erection, but it makes its presence known when his weight presses me further into the mattress. I shift a little, not sure if I’m trying to find a more comfortable position or simple friction. It doesn’t matter, as Simon stills my hips with a firm grip. I can feel another whine claw its way up my throat.

“Shh we’ll get there,” he reassures, stroking down my spine as if calming a spooked horse.

“You’re just so good at that,” I explain on an exhale. He huffs a laugh.

“Yeah well, Jean-Luc taught me well.” 

I can hear the smile in his voice, and a swell of jealousy fills me for a moment before it’s quelled by curiosity. “Isn’t he the one that taught you the…” I trail off, but he smiles down at me indulgently.

“Is that something you’d like to try?” he asks.

I swallow convulsively, but I feel myself nodding. I steel myself with a steady breath.

“Yes, I would. Simon, spell me like one of your French boys.”

  
  


_Simon_

I wake up tangled in Baz’s limbs. 

It’s hard to tell where one of us ends and the other begins, our skin fusing together with sweat where we touch. I must have fallen asleep at some point after our love making. I suppose we were lucky there were enough French speakers on board for my spells to work this far out to sea, but I’m glad they did. 

I’ll keep the image of Baz writhing under my hands in ecstasy with me forever. Hair splayed against the pillow, face contorted in pleasure, back arched away from the bed. As it is, I think it will be burned into the back of my eyelids for the foreseeable future. 

He groans against me, the vibrations rippling across my skin. I hum in response, lifting a hand to gently stroke his hair away from his face. Without opening his eyes, he nuzzles his way along the pillow we are sharing, unerringly seeking my lips. 

Despite the afternoon we have just shared, his kisses are still a sweet relief. I love that I am the one who gets to drink from his lips, lush and full and just a little colder than mine, that they are a balm against my own. 

We indulge ourselves a little longer, but eventually Baz pulls back with a sigh.

“What time is it?” he asks, still close enough for me to feel his breath across my lips.

“I don’t know,” I admit, my hand coming up to his cheek, stroking the slight shadow there with my thumb. He turns into my hand, kissing my palm. I can feel the smile playing at the edge of his lips and my mouth turns up unconsciously in response.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

We jump apart at the sounding of someone pounding on the door.

“Basilton! Why are you not at dinner?” I hear Malcom shout through the wood.

Baz has this wild-eyed look, and I can see his heart thumping beneath the shallow skin of his chest. He starts to scramble up when the door handle begins to turn.

_Baz_

I was having such a wonderful time. Of course my father chooses the glorious moments just after my first ever time being intimate to invade my privacy.

I scoop up my undershorts and have just pulled them over my private parts when my father bursts through the door. I look back to the bed, where Simon had been lounging just a moment before, but all there is to see is a mound of blankets.

“Father…” I start. “I fell asleep, sir.”

It’s not technically a lie. We did fall asleep. I hope that’s enough to not give me away. Besides I’m pretty sure I can feel pillow marks starting to darken on my cheeks as I flushed. That should lend some credence to my excuse.

My father eyes me appraisingly.

“Well, your mother asked me to check on you to make sure you hadn’t gotten into any… trouble,” he says. I can tell by his emphasis on trouble he’s referring to the event that brought Simon into my life. I can’t believe it was only a couple of days ago. How fast things can change.

“No father,” I assure him. “Just sleeping.”

I can feel my hand twitch at the lie, just a little. It’s my tell and I know my father knows it, but he has already turned and started heading back to the door, duty to make sure I’m still alive fulfilled.

“Get dressed quickly, I expect to see you in the dining hall in 15 minutes,” he instructs, before strutting out and slamming the door behind him.   
I turn back to bed just as Simon blinks back into existence.

“How did you do that?” I demand. His wand was on top of the pile of clothes he left on the chair. I’m lucky my father didn’t notice them, though I suppose they could be mistaken for mine. (As if I would ever wear such a cheap fabric.) The point is he didn’t have his wand with him when he disappeared.

“Oh, I just used **long time no see** ,” he says, once again flickering out of existence. But now that I am looking I can see the dip in the sheets where he was still sitting, a slight ruffling of the covers as he shifted.

He reappears with a sheepish smile on his face. I’m sure my face is a sight to see, jaw loose in shock. That is such a casual display of powerful magic, and he just sits there shrugging. I can also smell his magic in the air, and it smells like smoke. It’s so close to my own fire scent that it mixes well enough to hide it. If he were in a shack somewhere with a fire going it would be hard to detect. I guess we were lucky in that too.

“I learned to do that one when I would get into trouble stealing food for the homeless kids in the town where I lived. Can’t get caught if you’re not there, but I couldn’t always get to my wand so I just made do without” he explains, face morphing into a cheeky grin as he recounts his youth. To be so powerful so young though, learning to do wandless magic that way. I am in awe at the man in front of me. If he had my connections in the magical world he would be unstoppable, but here he is some unknown mage with unthinkable power that uses it to feed hungry children. I fall a little more in love with every new thing I learn.

“You’re amazing,” I breath, eyes still wide. He just shrugs it off, cheeks turning pink.

“And you’re going to be even later for dinner if you don’t start getting dressed,” he replies.

He’s right, and his words trigger a burst of energy. I tug my clothes on from where they are scattered around the foot of my bed. Usually I wouldn’t leave my room looking anything less than perfect, but I feel so buoyed up with new found love I don’t care. I scrape my hair back into a low pony tail instead of slicking it back like I usually do for dinner.

I turn to Simon to find that he is still watching me from the bed. He has a lazy smile on his face. Once I finish with my hair I go back over to him, crawling across the bed on all fours to get one last kiss before I have to go. He arches up into it, one hand cupping the back of my neck.

“I’ll see you later,” I murmur into his mouth.

“I’m sure you will,” he says with a smile. “Meet me after dinner? At the mess hall downstairs?”  
“Yes,” I whisper, then head out. Just before I shut my door I take one last look back at the beautiful boy in my bed.

The dining room could have burned down during dinner and I don’t think I would have noticed.

I’m surprisingly hungry, though I suppose spending the afternoon fooling around with Simon meant that we missed lunch and we have definitely worked off the late breakfast. So I ignore the conversation happening around me and inhale the roast beef set down in front of me. My stomach is not used to the stretch though, and I can feel my skin taut and uncomfortable against the waistband of my trousers. By the time dessert is served I feel stomach acid pressing against the base of my oesophagus, urging me to purge.

I close my eyes against the feeling, sweat starting to bead against my brow at the effort it takes. I am snapped back to the present from a small gloved hand pressing at my elbow. It’s Daphne. She has a concerned motherly expression on her face. I hate and love her for it; she could never replace my actual mother, but I won’t pretend I don’t derive some comfort from the thought that maybe someone cares.

I catch her eye and see the question there. _Are you ok?_ She seems to ask. I shake my head minutely, enough to express that no I am definitely not ok, but not enough to overwhelm me with dizziness.

Daphne stands, still touching my elbow.

“I’m going to take Basilton back to bed, he is clearly not well enough to be here,” she announces to my father, then tugs me along with her before either of us could respond. We emerged out onto the deck, and whilst the cold damp air was refreshing against my sweat-sticky face, I was suddenly more aware of the rocking of the ship than I had been in days.

My stomach heaves and I lean heavily against Daphne’s side. She shoulders the burden wordlessly with nothing but kindness in her eyes. She is too good for my father and the bitter shell of a man he became after my mother’s death. My mother, Natasha Pitch, was one of the first casualties in the uprising that lead to the rift in the old families. I miss her every day. Yet it is Daphne here, holding me up as a I swoon like a lamb. I don’t appreciate her as I should. Afterall it was her that sent my father to check on me when I was missing this afternoon. If I had gone over the railings, if I had slipped and Simon hadn’t caught me, maybe she would have missed me.

I grip her hand in mine where it rests against my arm. “Thank you,” I whispered fervently. She just smiles and leads us both to my rooms.

When we get there the bed is made, but not neatly like it would be if the maid had come by. I imagine Simon tidying up after himself, fussing over the blankets and plumping the pillows, and it makes my heart swell. The moment is soured though by the continued churning of my stomach. I don’t deserve someone so thoughtful and beautiful. He shouldn’t even look twice at someone so pitiful and broken. I gag, reaching for the basin, but nothing comes up.

My hair is starting to fall back from where I hastily tied it before dinner. Daphne must have taken off her gloves because her bare fingers gently brush it back from my face as her other hand gently rubs my back. I try to stifle a sob, but it comes out anyway, choked and garbled and catching in the phlegm welling in the back of my throat. The taste takes me back to an even worse time, the unbidden memories pushing tears over onto my cheeks.

“Shh, shh,” Daphne hushes. She stops smoothing circles between my shoulder blades to get her wand out of her bag. “ **Get well soon**.”

I can feel my stomach settling almost immediately. I spit out the spittle that had built up in my mouth. (It forms a long string from my lip to the porcelain of the bowl before snapping off over the rim). I wipe my mouth on the flannel on the side.

“I – thank you,” I say, looking up at my stepmother with watery eyes.

“Basilton,” she says softly, still brushing my hair gently from my forehead. “You know if there’s anything you need to talk about… I know we’ve not really connected since I married your father, but I am here if you need me.”

I don’t know why she is being so kind. I must look so pathetic to inspire such words, but I can still feel them curling warmly around my heart. There’s nothing a can say to her, so I stiffly nod.

She sighs softly and steps back towards the door. I stop her with a hand.

“Daphne –“ I start. “I, uh –“

Instead of stammering my way through my emotions, I close my eyes and enfold her in my arms. I rarely hug anyone, usually only stooping to this with my needy half-siblings. But I can’t do anything but cling to her like I’m five years old again. Her arms encircle my waist, pressing me to her so it feels less like taking and more like sharing. I breathe her in, soft and feminine and comforting.

I feel the knot in my throat loosening a little more the longer we stand there.

Eventually I pull back. She places her hand against my cheek and smiles at me. I hope she can see how grateful I am by looking at me so I don’t have to suffer the indignity of trying to voice it. I think she does because she once more pulls back towards the door and this time I do not stop her.

I let my head hang down as I listen to her leave.

“Oh, sorry I didn’t see you there,” I hear her squeak.

“Oh no I’m sorry, I was just looking for, uh…” That’s Simon speaking. My head snaps back up at the sound and I find myself hastening towards the door.

“Simon,” I interrupt. He looks grateful at that, his eyes a little wild.

“Baz, I thought we were going to, uh, play cards… after dinner…” he trails off, unconvincingly. Daphne’s eyes flicker between us. A look of understanding seems to pass over her face before it is smothered with her usual polite mask. I wonder what she thinks she saw. She certainly didn’t buy Simon’s lies because he truly is terrible at making things up on the spot.

“Yes,” I agree, trying not to roll my eyes. “Come in while I clean up a little.”

I drag him through my doors and quickly bid Daphne a goodnight before slamming them behind us.

_Simon_

I wait for half an hour after dinner has finished at the entrance to the mess hall, but Baz never shows. I know that his dinner might take a little longer, what with all the courses and the old people trying to make conversation, but a small voice niggles at the back of my mind. What if he’s forgotten me? Or worse, what if he’s decided I’m not worth it.

I am nothing compared to him. I have no connections, at least none to brag about, no money. He’s so beautiful and I’m just… me. He’s already gotten a taste of all me, and maybe that’s all he wanted. I have nothing more to give.

But I won’t give up on this, on us. So I decide to go to his rooms, and if he’s not there then I can wait for him to get back from dinner. There must be an explanation, so I stuff all my doubts down into the box of all the things I don’t like to think about.

I have an instant of panic when, as I round the last corner to get to Baz’s door I bump into a well-dressed woman coming out of his rooms. For a moment I feel a sick curl of jealousy before I realise that it’s his stepmother.

We are both apologising and shuffling as we try to navigate our way round each other. I try to explain my presence. There’s nothing wrong with me visiting Baz, after all we did have dinner together with his family so it’s not a huge leap to think we may have become friends. What do friends do? I have a brief flash of what Baz and I did this afternoon, something that certainly is not shared between people who might just be friends, and stammer out something about cards.

Fortunately, I don’t have to embarrass myself any further as the man himself comes out and pulls me into his room after him. I’m relieved to see him, but as I greedily drink in his face, I can see his eyes are red-rimmed, a high flush staining his cheeks, broken by salty tracks.

“What are you doing here-“

“Have you been crying? Are you ok?” I interrupt.

I crowd into his space, thumbs tracing under his puffy eyes. He tries to turn away but I hold him fast. Our eyes meet and I can feel us leaning in, our lips magnets. He’s a hairs-breadth away before he sucks in a shaky breath and turns with more force. I let him go.

Why did he not want to kiss me? Was I right and he’s decided that the fun we’ve had was just that… fun? Can he not feel my heart break as he steps away, leaving my empty palms to cool in the still air of his room?

“I can’t… Please,” he pleads.

“What? You don’t want…” I whisper, still reaching for him. “Was it something I did? I can… I can-“

He recaptures my hands in his own, though they are clammy and trembling finely. His brows draw together.

“No,” he states resolutely. “It’s not you. You could never do anything that would make me not want you. But Simon, I’m no good for you. I’m broken.”  
“Don’t say that!” I say harshly, pulling him into my body and cradling his head against my shoulder. “You are no such thing.”

“I am, though. You are so perfect and wholesome, I don’t want to bring you down. I’m a _monster._ Fuck I can’t even _eat._ I don’t even deserve your pity.”

“Stop it,” I demand, clutching him tighter and trailing my fingers through the hair that had come loose. “You aren’t a monster and you deserve all the love I can give you.”

I feel his breath stutter against my neck at the word love. But I mean it. Someway, somehow, he has found his way into my heart and made a home there.

“I mean it,” I whisper. “I do… I love you. You make me feel so free.”

“I-“ his voice cracks. “I love you too. You make me want to stay alive.” His hushed confession is muffled by my shirt but it sounds like a tolling bell in the quiet room. All the air leaves my body in a relieved rush, and I collapse myself into him.

We cling to each other for a moment longer before I pull back and up, intent on recapturing his lips.

But once again he pulls away. I frown up at him in confusion.

“I just need to rinse my mouth,” he assures me, but he won’t meet my eye as he says it, as if he’s ashamed.

“Were you sick?” I ask. It was the wrong thing to say, because his shoulders go tense and his face closes off.

“Hey,” I stop him on the way to the sink. “I don’t care, you know? I still love you, no matter what all this is about, I promise.”

I can see in his eyes that his walls are slowly dropping again when he turns once more to the sink where he proceeds to wash out his mouth. Despite the highly charged emotions that still fill the air between us, I take advantage of the moment to watch his Adam’s apple bob as he gargles and swirls the water around his mouth. He neck is long and elegant, and I feel the urge to lick it.

He catches me staring and a hint of a smile ticks up the corners of his lips. The lust I feel must be apparent on my face, because he crosses back over to me quickly and at last, _at last_ , we kiss once more. It’s only been a couple of hours since we last did this, but each moment not spent right here has been a wasted eternity.

We do eventually part, whispering words of love into each other’s mouths.

“You wanna see something cool?” I ask.

I want to cheer Baz up, because it’s clear that something had happened before I got here to upset him like that. I think I remember the way to that one place I saw the first day I spent exploring the ship, and now I want to share that with him.

_Baz_

He loves me.

Simon Snow _loves_ me.

Simon has taken my hand once more and is leading me through the maze of the lower decks. Unlike when we’ve been wandering these last few days, he seems confident in his route. I trail along passively, feeling like a small child on a museum trip, excited but unsure. I am tired despite it only being mere hours since I was asleep, but the heavy, quiet kind of tired that comes from crying rather than the need for sleep.

We round a last corner and come to a heavy metal door. Here Simon turns and smiles, showing all his neat white teeth. The concern from earlier still clings to the corners of his eyes, but enthusiasm is starting to take over the rest of his face. Helpless to resist, my mouth twitches up in response. This just makes his smile impossibly wider.

“I found this on my first day exploring, before we met,” Simon explains, hand on the door handle. 

Before I can respond he’s pushing against the dull steel with his shoulder, the hinges groaning in protest as if it hasn’t been opened in years, let alone the few days it must have been at most. As the door swings wider the creaking turns to shrieking, making me start and look around as if we’re not meant to be here. Well actually I’m not sure if we are.

There isn’t much light inside, just emergency lighting at regular intervals around the edges and lining another door at the other end of the room. And in between this door and the other are hulking masses, dimly reflecting the light off chrome plating and glass windows. It takes a moment before my eyes adjust to the gloom.

Ah. This must be where they store the cars. Some of these are classics, I’m surprised the door would just open like that. (Then again, this is Simon, petty criminal extraordinaire.) There really are some gorgeous specimens in here.

But Simon is toeing me past the main body of cars, weaving in and out of the spaces with poorly executed grace, trailing his free hand on the buffed bumpers and hoods, smearing greasy fingerprints in his wake. I suppose this is not the final destination.

We’re nearly at the back wall when he pulls me to a stop in front of a motorcycle.

The black paint has been brought to a high shine, the brassy ends to the handles and wheel spokes glinting like diamonds even in the low light. I could tell you everything about this bike, from the calibre of the engine to the exact serial number of the oil used to smooth its moving parts.

I start to laugh.

Simon has this face of pure befuddlement as he takes in my mirth and it makes me laugh harder.

“What are you -?” he starts. Tears are starting to squeeze out of the corners of my eyes. “I thought you’d like this- why are you laughing?”

My sides are starting to ache, and I can see that my laughter is becoming contagious as Simon starts to giggle too. We lean into each other, gulping the hot oil-saturated air. After several minutes I finally get a handle on myself long enough to speak again.

“Did you bring me to this bike because you thought I’d like it?” I wheeze out.

“Yes,” Simon splutters, snickering despite still not knowing the reason.

“This,” I gesture with a sweeping hand. “This is _my_ bike.”

Simon’s face goes through confusion, realisation, surprise and several other emotions I can’t put a name to before he cracks and starts to laugh again.

“This i-he-he-he-his yours?” he chortles. “I wanted to cheer you up and – ehehehe – _with your own bloody bike ­_ – ahahahaha - I just – I can’t…”  
He trails off, clutching his side, like I was moments ago. He’s so beautiful, his head thrown back showing off his neck. I don’t know why I’m so fixated by it, but there’s a cluster of moles just below his chin that have revealed themselves. I find myself crowding into his space and mashing my lips against that little constellation. I can feel the aftershocks of his laughter vibrating through my lips, but this quickly turns to moans as I start to trace them with my tongue.

I push him so that his backside is perched on the Italian leather seat of my motorcycle, his fingers winding their way through my hair to keep me at his throat. I move to the other side, nipping and sucking at the flesh as I go. There are wisps of hair coming through the closer I get to Simon’s chin and they scratch against my lips. The feeling is electric.

Eventually I make my way to Simon’s lips, and his tongue immediately licks its way behind my teeth. My hands have found their way under his shirt again. I grip onto the softer fleshy mounds around his hips. I like the feeling of them, kneading with my bony fingers. In response one of his hands trails down from my hair and round to my stomach, rubbing tiny circles just like I like it.

I smile into his mouth and he pulls away, a cheeky glint in his eye. As he pulls back, I see the absolute mess I’ve made of his neck. I brush my fingers against the largest bruise just as he opens his mouth to speak and it immediately snaps shut again as he shudders against me. Interesting.

_Simon_

Baz had attacked my neck like the fucking vampire that he is, and feeling the evidence stained onto my skin is more than I can cope with.

I gather him to me for one last kiss (which at this point is more of a messy face smashing), before I push him backward towards the big boat of a car nearby that has the roomy backseat. The doors are technically locked but I whisper a quick “ **open sesame** ” into Baz’s mouth as I press him up against the gleaming silver door and it’s not really a problem.

I am so glad Baz isn’t intimidated by my casual use of wandless magic. At least he hasn’t had any complaints so far. I’ve had several magical partners that find it off-putting, or worse frightening. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

_Baz_

(He opened the car with just a muttered word against my lips, and _fuck_ it’s hot.)

_Simon_

I manage to manoeuvre us so I can open the car door without letting Baz go, and as soon as I do we tumble inside in a tangle of limbs. It takes longer than it should to get our clothes off, but we are laughing and getting in each other’s way, and elbows and knees are painfully whacking against the upholstered seatbacks. But once we do, we sink into each other, and there’s nothing but him.

It’s not until several hours later that we slowly rouse ourselves.

The windows in the car are steamed up from our breath. On one I can see the faint outline of a handprint that must have been left there sometime in the night. The skin of my back is stuck to the leather beneath me from sweat, and where Baz and I are pressed together we are fused with a mixture of bodily fluids that aren’t so pleasant in the light of day. At least I assume it’s day, here in the storage there is no natural light by which to tell, but the ache in my stomach is telling me it’s time for breakfast.

Baz starts to shift against me, nuzzling into my neck sleepily as he wakens. My neck feels a little stiff as I look down at him, but it’s worth it to watch his eyelashes flutter and his brow briefly furrow before he remembers where he is. A look of wonder passes over his face as he glances up a me and licks at his kiss-cracked lips.

“Morning,” he rasps. His morning breath washes over me but, while it is objectively disgusting, it makes me love him more for showing his imperfections. At least he didn’t drool on my chest where he was laying, which is more than I can say for the seat back I had slept against.

“Morning beautiful,” I reply, tentatively brushing my hand through his hair, which is more disordered than I have ever seen it.

We both smile at each other for another long moment, before we start to negotiate our way out of the backseat of the car. It’s much harder than it should be, skin sticky, limbs pleasantly aching and quiet laughter, but we eventually stumble out. As we stoop to gather our clothes that were strewn over various surfaces last night, my stomach gives an impressively loud rumble. Baz looks over at me from where he’s struggling to pull up his creased trousers and raises an eyebrow, smirking.

“We’d best get you to breakfast, Snow.” He glances down at my pocket watch which I had recovered from the heap that was formerly my jacket, holding my hand still as he appraises the ticking hands. “Or rather, brunch.”

“Good idea,” I say crowding into his space once more. “Or I might just have to eat you.”

I capture his lips with mine, ravenous and biting.

“Maybe I won’t mind if you do,” he murmurs into my mouth, and I ruin the moment by laughing. How quickly I have turned this innocent soul into a sex-crazed heathen. With a couple more chaste presses, I pull away and finish buttoning my shirt.

“Come on, let’s get brunch.”

I hold my hand out, and despite all our recently activities it still sends a thrill up my arm (and directly into my heart) when he takes it.

_Baz_

As we approach the upper decks, we endeavour to straighten ourselves out a little more. Looking so rumpled would not work with the innocent façade we’re trying to project.

Then again, I have no idea what anyone else could think of when they see Simon’s messed up hair and devilish grin. He looks like the cat that got the cream and the canary too, and honestly last night he really did. He catches me staring, and my cheeks heat up a little but I don’t look away. I can’t. I mesmerised by his blue eyes. How can something so ordinary become so extraordinary to me in such a short amount of time?

He gestures with his head that we should get going, then takes the lead through the portal out onto the top deck where Penelope waits for us with our breakfast. She has outdone herself this time, with a spread of cakes and sweet treats. Not a traditional breakfast but exactly what I wanted right now to combat the fuzzy taste of sleep in my mouth.

“Simon!” Penelope calls as he emerges out of the shade and into the dazzling morning sun. “Basilton!”

She seems equally as thrilled to wave me over, which is new. Hardly ever is someone genuinely enthusiastic to greet me. It’s… nice.

“Basil, I noticed you didn’t stay for pudding last night, and Simon never got to try all the desserts when he dined with us, and I promised, so I decided to order up a little of all of them for you both!” she smiles, clearly pleased with herself.

Simon, lacking manners as usual, falls on the spread with great gusto, not even taking the time to load a plate for himself just taking the food straight from the platters. I’m a little more dignified in my approach and gratefully thank Penelope before more reservedly picking up morsels to sample. Then again, I think as the sweetness dissolves on my tongue, what use is dignity when dessert first tastes this good?

We are silent for the duration of the meal, not for want of things to say but from the delight of eating. I rarely feel this way, yet today it feels like a blessing. Like maybe I will be ok. And I could be, so long as I have Simon by my side. (Ready to help me work up an actual appetite…)

I finish long before Simon even starts to slow, but neither of us is surprised. While he continues to stuff his gorgeous mouth (and really how does he still look so attractive with cake crumbs stuck to his day-old stubble?), Penelope and I strike up a conversation. It quickly devolves into a debate, whether a scone would be better classified as a biscuit or cake. Simon tries to chime in, but his mouth is full and ends up spraying the table, then choking as he tries to suck the stray crumbs back in.

We are all still laughing when a shadow falls over the table.

I look up and see the stern features of my father. The laughter echoes in the sudden silence that follows.

“Basilton.” My name cracks out of him like an icy whip. “What a pleasure to see you well.”

He sounds anything but sincere in that statement. My heart is starting to thunder in my chest, palpitating uncomfortably against my full stomach.

“Father,” I sit up, turning to fully face him. I don’t know what I have done to earn his wrath… Unless he’s found out about me and Simon.

“You can imagine my surprise,” he continues blithely as if I hadn’t interrupted. “When I came to check on you last night after that performance at dinner and your bed was empty. And again this morning, you were absent from the family rooms, only for me to find out from Daphne that you were last seen with this cretin-“  
“Don’t talk about Simon like that,” I cut in fiercely, standing to my full height. “In case you have forgotten he saved my life.”

“I am your father, you will not speak to me with such disrespect,” he spits in my face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this boy has bewitched you. You’re a weak-minded fool Basilton…”

I can feel Simons magic building behind me. It rolls off of him in angry waves.

We are starting to draw a crowd. Most of them are magical families I know, likely drawn in by the power Simon is exuding as much as the argument itself. The few Normals around are moving away though, the feel of magic repulsive to them.

“Malcolm,” Penelope tries to placate him. “Simon’s done nothing wro-“

“He’s bewitched you too, Bunce!” Father proclaims, starting to sound shrill. “He’s too powerful. He’s dangerous!”

This brings a murmur from the crowd.

“He has placed my poor son under a love spell, it’s the only explanation of his deviance-“

“Father, please you know that’s not true-“ I try to cut in but father once again continues as if I hadn’t spoken.

“A love spell so strong to turn him against his own kind! His father! His betrothed!”

Simon, who has been silent up until now chokes, and turns to me with wild eyes. I can see him mouth the word to himself. _Betrothed_. I had not told him how serious those expectations of marriage were, how far my father had planned my life. I see the betrayal in his eyes as he once more looks to me. I try to shake my head in denial, but he looks away too quickly to see, anger marring his beautiful face.

And still my father continues.

“And who could expect anything less from … _a Salisbury_ ,” he hisses the name with vehemence. I recognise it though. The name. It was the same name as the man who led the uprising against the old ways, the man who caused the division between the old families. Davy Salisbury.

But Simon is a Snow.

Unless I’m not the only one hiding something.

I feel my heart turn cold. I thought I could trust him. Is my father right?

Before I can examine the feeling closer, the mob starts to close in on Simon. No matter how the feelings happened, I know I can’t let anything happen to him. But my father closes his arms around me and holds me tight as Simon is backed into a corner.

“Come along boy,” one of the men says, an acquaintance of my father I had met on several occasions.

“I’m not coming,” Simon warns in a low voice. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“If you’ve done nothing wrong, we won’t keep you for long,” another voice goads from the throng of people gathered.

One of the men closest to Simon lunges forward to grab his arm, but he and three other mages are blasted back in an energy surge that seemed to come from Simon himself. He hadn’t said any words, but he’s panting with the exertion. He really is a powerful mage.

Before he can catch his breath, another person in the crowd whips out a magical amulet and shouts “ **out for the count** ”, and Simon crumples into a defenceless heap on the ground.

I struggle against my father’s iron grip to reach him but he holds fast. He is directing people to take Simon somewhere but I am beyond listening. I struggle and scratch like a wild thing, but by the time my father lets up, Simon is long gone and I am exhausted. Only Penelope, Daphne and Agatha remain on the deck with us, and they watch as I dissolve into tears.

_Simon_

By the time I wake up again, I am chained to a pipe in a room I haven’t seen before, but by the small window ports is clearly on one of the lower decks. The sun is also much lower than I think it should be. We hadn’t finished our brunch until a little past noon, but it is well into the afternoon by now.

I shuffle slightly till I’m sitting up, rolling my shoulders from where they have been strained in their cuffs. My head feels like it is splitting apart, and I find it hard to focus on the details of the room around me. Instead I close my eyes and woozily rest my cheek against the cool metal of the pipe. I am once more acutely reminded I am on a ship, the slight movement feeling exaggerated by the blood sloshing around my skull.

I must have hit my head when I went down because usually I shake off other people’s magic within a matter of minutes. I would have surely felt another person onboard with power to match me. Without moving, I tried to figure out where I hit it from where the pain was strongest. (I’ve been in enough fights to know how that feels). I take a steadying breath, but all I can feel is the all-encompassing throbbing, with no point of origin. Frowning, I start to rub my head against the pipe, hoping to find a bruise, but probably looking to the outside like a deranged, hairless cat. Nothing.

I sigh in frustration and open my eyes again. The world is swimming, weaving like a drunk person in front of me. But there’s no one else here. That is both very stupid of my captors, and very lucky for me.

I don’t like going off. It used to happen a lot when I was younger, and not in control of my magic. It doesn’t happen much anymore, unless I’m really angry or scared, because I don’t like hurting people. I had a small explosion earlier on the deck, but thoughts of Baz, of not wanting to hurt him, allowed me to reign it back in on time. But there’s no Baz here to stop me now.

I let the feeling of frustration and despair well up in me and cloud my vision. A generous sprinkling of nausea shouldn’t hurt either. The feeling grows and rolls over my skin in an oily shiver. I gag on it.

This isn’t right.

I try again, and again there is no magic. There’s just the sickening feeling of _wrongness_ crawling all over me, like a nest of spiders. The pain in my head ratchets up again, rippling through me like a gunshot and leaving me shaky and weak.

I rest against the cold pipe once more, trying to keep my breaths steady as all the desserts I had eaten this morning stage a revolt in my gut. If I have no magic, I don’t know how I can get out of here. But trying to think is painful. There’s nothing to do but settle against the pipe and try to make myself comfortable, I guess.

_Baz_

After a long while, it could have been minutes or days I have no way of telling, Daphne helps to scrape me off the deck and shepherds me down to my rooms. I crumple down into my sheets. They still smell of him, and fresh tears come up, unbidden.

I feel a hand in my hair, the touch light. It’s nothing like the way Simon tugged on it last night, but he is the only thought in my mind. I squint into the light to see Daphne sitting on the edge of my bed and, hovering awkwardly in the doorway, is Agatha.

It doesn’t make sense to me that she would follow me here. We are betrothed only on paper, despite what my father said earlier. I tried to find comfort in her company, before Simon, tried to make the best of an awful situation, but the only thing we’ve ever had in common is the feeling of being trapped. I would have married her, if only so we could both in our own way be free. But now, now I know what it is to love and be loved, I don’t think I could ever consider such a future. It hurts to look at her, knowing that I can’t give her the escape she needs.

Daphne shushes me as another strangled cry leaves me at the hopelessness I feel. But her hand is too small, too delicate in my hair, to be the comfort it once was. I curl myself away from it, once more hiding my eyes from the light.

Weight shifts from the bed, and I hear a hushed conversation by the doorway. The handle clicks into place and there is silence, but for my hoarse, heavy breathing.

“Basilton.”

I startle. I was so sure I had been left to my misery, but Agatha was still here.

“Basilton,” she tries again, this time a little closer.

I give in and sit up, still clutching the Simon-scented sheets like a child clings to a bear. She is holding a handkerchief out to me, and I take it gratefully. I don’t want to think what a mess I must look. I mop my face and a little down my neck from where the tears have flown too freely.

“Thank you,” I mumble, my tongue heavy and swollen from emotion.

Agatha looks down at me, pity clear on her face.

“You love him,” she states, no judgement in her tone, nor any anger.

I nod, not trusting my voice to stay steady.

She nods too, her face contorting oddly before she turns away. I don’t know what that means, but I can’t see any disgust there either. She sighs lightly before looking back, her expression once more neutral.

“I don’t love you, Basil,” she says, sitting herself down on the very edge of the mattress. “I never did, and I think you know that, but I wanted to say it. I wanted to make my parents happy, to marry someone they approved of, have children to watch me get old, and I thought I could have that with you. But whenever I faced the reality of it, whenever I held your arm or sat with you at dinner, all I could think of was how wrong it felt. How could it feel so wrong? You were, you are, a perfect gentleman, and everything my parents wanted…”

She trails off. I know how she feels. The war inside between making everyone else happy and making myself happy is what drove me to that railing. It drove me right into Simons arms. I reach out to place my hand over hers on the bed. She doesn’t react except to smile sadly.

“I wish I could have what you have. I know it sounds awful, but I wish I could cry over someone the way you’re crying over him. I’ve never felt anything, no matter how hard I try. We both deserve better fates than this, Basil. And that’s why I’m going to help you.”  
My eyes snap up to hers. She’ll help me? How?

“How can _you_ help me?” I ask. The words are harsh, but my tone is too desperate for them to hurt.

“Your father has people watching the door, and people watching you,” she tells me. “He has convinced them you are under a love spell, so anything you do will be scrutinised, and there is absolutely no way they will let you anywhere near where Simon is being held. But they are not watching me.”

She raises an eyebrow deviously as the implications of her statement sink in. It seems I have severely underestimated her. But I am suspicious why she would go out of her way for me. Like she said, she doesn’t love me.

“What’s in this for you?” I ask warily.

She squares her shoulders. “When we reach America in a few days, I will need somewhere to stay. It does no good for a single woman to be out in this world on her own, no matter how much money she has. I need to make some connections before I can go off on my own, and I can’t do that alone. Will you help me in return?”

I nod thoughtfully. She’s right. Neither of us will have much money, as I have no doubt our families will disown and disinherit us as soon as they learn of our plan to run. But I have jewels and trinkets worth a pretty penny, and no doubt so does she. Two lots of stolen fortune is better than one.

“We have a deal,” I agree, holding out my hand. She takes it, more firm than I would have expected (and isn’t she just full of surprises today). “So what’s the plan?”

She grimaces and looks down.

“I – I don’t have one just yet,” she stutters. “But I can go to see Simon, see what they’ve done to him, how they’ve kept him. We have a few more days before we arrive, we have time to get him out. If we release him straight away, we’ll have nowhere to go.”

What she’s saying makes sense, but it makes my heart ache to think of him locked up for any amount of time. At least with Agatha as a go between, he will have hope. And maybe it will be a good thing, to spend some time apart. After the revelation of Simon’s heritage, perhaps I don’t know him as well as I thought. It’s something I have been trying not to think on, but now that the thought has resurfaced, it once again stings. I don’t know much about the Salisburys except the deep hatred my family has for them. I should ask my father.

“Ok,” I say, resolve once more hardening as a plan starts to form. “You go and find Simon, see how he is. He’s a powerful mage, so my father has probably put measures in place to stop him from escaping. Find out what they are, and how we can get around them. I will go and talk to my father, see what I can find out. I know he was planning a dinner with the Captain, maybe I can see what arrangements can be made when we reach the port.”

“I will meet you on the upper deck before dinner then,” Agatha smiles. Her eyes still hold some of the sadness from earlier, but there is a sharpness there too, a clarity that comes with determination. I find that I trust her to do just that. It’s a shame that this truce has come at such a moment of turmoil, but I feel like one day, when this is a distant memory, we might actually be friends.

If only I don’t die from the heartache first.

It takes longer than I would like to clean myself up but having a goal has cleared my head enough for me to start plotting. I know I need to talk to my father about Simon, but how to bring him up without sounding like a lovesick fool? I ponder this as I scrub the grime of the deck from my hands and the salt from my face. What is it I really need to know?

When I am dressed and once more composed, I venture out of my rooms in search of father. As Agatha predicted, a man I knew from my father’s circle of friends was sitting outside the door, smoking a cigarette. I ignore him as he stands to follow me. It is early afternoon, so my father is likely in the study at the back of the library on the upper floors. I have only seen it once, when we were first shown around the first-class quarters, but I’m sure I remember the way.

I use the walk to school my features. I am angry with my father, for so many reasons, but I refuse to let him see any trace of it on my face. I won’t give him the satisfaction. At the door to the library, my shadow stops, seemingly satisfied that I would get up to nothing questionable here in the library.

There, at a mahogany desk surrounded by no doubt priceless tomes is Malcolm Grimm-Pitch, not a hair out of place. My hatred for him roils just below the surface of my skin but I push it down. I need this conversation, my feelings can wait.

I approach him, swiftly and steadily, as if it were any normal day. As if he hadn’t just ripped my reason to live and love from my fingertips. (Breathe, Basil. Don’t let your feelings out.)

“Father,” I call, gaining his attention. His face is closed off, but I know my father well. He isn’t surprised to see me, but I can tell he doesn’t want to talk.

“Are you over your hysterics?” he asks, callous and aloof.

I can feel my teeth grinding in my mouth before I take a steadying breath. (Don’t let your feelings out.)

“Quite,” I reply, allowing my face to relax down into a neutral mask. “In fact, I would like to apologise for the scene I caused. I was not aware who the boy was, and I went against your advice to act on my… baser instincts. I let my feelings overwhelm me, but rest assured it was nothing more than a dalliance.”

It hurts to say such things, but that’s overshadowed by the pain at seeing the sheer relief on my father’s face.

“This is good to hear, Basilton,” he says in a gust.

“You say he is a Salisbury…?” I leave my question open ended, in the hopes he will fill in gaps. I don’t know where to start with this line of questioning and I don’t want to appear overly interested. Father eyes me suspiciously, and I keep my countenance carefully neutral, my face blank. He sighs, and gestures to the other chair beside him.

“You remember the troubles with Davy Salisbury?” he asks, continuing as I nod. “He was a powerful mage with grandiose ideas. He felt that mages should be able to control all magic, including the magic inherent to dark creatures. He consorted with beasts and demons, vampires and fae, all in the pursuit of absolute power. To those that followed him, he promised a share of this power. To those that went against him, he threatened to use that power against them. He even threatened to out the magical community to the Normals, because to him they were no more than power sources, giving strength to our words with their thoughts.”

I know all of this. Although I was very young when the Coven found out about Davy Salisbury’s dark experiments it was still well within my lifetime, and I am still living in the fallout.

“Your mother was one of his biggest adversaries. She had sway over many of the old families and as such she was an obvious target. We worked so hard to protect her, and we warded against all forms of attack we knew. But Davy was working with forces beyond our reckoning. He had devised a weapon the likes of which we had never seen, something so truly horrific and wrong that there was no way we could stop it.”

I have never heard the story of how my mother died. I know I was there, that she died shielding me, but all I remember is the aftermath. Tugging at my mother’s lifeless body, begging her to wake up and not understanding that she never would. I remember the scorch marks, the blackened walls. I remember being pulled away and then... Nothing.

“What was it?” I ask, my voice trembling with the onslaught of the memories. My father looks at me with haunted eyes.

“A child.”

_Simon_

I am startled awake, or rather out of whatever trance I’ve been in for who knows how long, when the door creaks open. I expect it to be one of the men who knocked me out on the deck, but instead I see Agatha’s blonde head poking around the door. She is holding a tray of food.

I should be hungry, I always am, but my appetite seems to have been stripped from me alongside my magic.

“Simon,” she says softly. Her forehead creases as she takes in my appearance. I’m sure I look a mess, likely pale from the nausea and no doubt a little battered from the rough handling. “How are you?”  
I don’t know how to answer that, and all that comes out is a low groan.

The door gently snicks shut behind her. She puts the tray down on the table, and it clatters loudly in the silence. But what makes me wince is her pulling her wand out from a fold in her skirts.

She turns her back and traces the door with the tip of her wand, muttering under her breath. Magic ripples out from her, like a cool bubble. Even without my own magic to sense it, I can feel the pressure, the way it muffles my heartbeats, and I know that she just cast a silencing spell.

My heart rate spikes. Without my magic, and my arms bound as they are, I am powerless against her. I remember her walking around with Baz on that first day, and sitting with him at dinner… My brain grinds to a halt as I realise that she must be his fiancé. She’s the one I helped him cheat against. And now she has silenced the door and turned to me with her wand still drawn.

“Pl-please,” I beg, my tongue clumsy as I struggle with my words. “I – I didn’t know he – that Baz was – I would never, I swear –“

Her eyes widen as she takes in the desperation and horror on my face. My eyes are darting furtively between her eyes and her wand, and she seems to realise my fear. The wand is quickly tucked away once more.

“Oh no, no, no,” Agatha reassures me with a placating gesture. “I don’t want to hurt you Simon. Baz sent me.”

I could see on her face that she saw me flinch at his name. I don’t know if she knows just how involved Baz and I were. What would he have told her? I feel terrible for my involvement this far and I don’t want to make it worse, but I am known for sticking my foot in it at the worst of times.

“I’m sorry,” I try. It seems like a good blanket statement, no specifics to get me in trouble. Her reaction surprises me though. She huffs out a laugh and rolls her eyes in a move so reminiscent of Baz it makes my heart ache.

“What are you sorry for?” She scoffs. “It’s not like Baz and I are really a couple. Unless you really did put him under a love spell…”

“No, I wouldn’t, I would never-“ She cuts me off with a laugh.

“I didn’t think you had, I know love spells and it’s not that.”

I wonder how she knows so much about love spells, but it’s really not my place to ask. I’m just relieved she believes me.

“No I’m here to help you,” she continues. “Baz and I are going to figure out how to get you out of here.”

It takes a moment for me to get over the shock of that statement, said so matter-of-fact. Even when I process it, I can’t make myself feel anything outside the numbing emptiness where my magic usually fills me.

“I don’t know how yet,” she says over my inner turmoil. “But Baz is talking to the Captain tonight over dinner and maybe we can smuggle you out… I don’t know…”

“What about a lifeboat?” I ask.

“What?”

“When we get close enough to the shore we can take one of the lifeboats, then we won’t have to go through the same custom inspection and we can get new papers…”

“We can start a new life,” she whispers, sounding awed. I look up and there’s a hopeful sparkle in her eye.

“But I can’t,” I groan. “They’ve taken my magic and I don’t know how, I don’t how to get it back. I’m useless, I can’t-“

I start to choke on the words, hopelessness washing over me once more, as sure as the tide.

Agatha frowns at that and comes closer to inspect me. Her eyes catch on the handcuffs, coming closer still. I haven’t paid much attention to them except to shift occasionally to keep the blood flowing to my hands. They are making angry red welts on my wrists as they dig in.

Her hands are smooth and small in mine as she lifts them even closer to her face. I strain to focus my eyes as I try to see what she’s looking at. The low light is glinting faintly off the metal, and I can see the slight distortion where there are runes engraved into the surface.

“I think these might be Latin,” Agatha mutters to herself. “And this here.” She sweeps her thumb over the thicker join of the cuffs. “This is the Pitch family crest. These must belong to Malcolm… Maybe Baz knows how to open them. At least there’s a keyhole, that’s a good sign.”  
I can feel her relief, but I am too drained to feel it too. I know that I should, but it’s like I’m watching myself from far away. Agatha rests one of her hands against my hair and sighs.

“I brought you some food,” she says, pulling away back towards the tray.

I slump back against the pipe. The mention of food has set my stomach churning again, but I know from my time living on the streets that I need to eat when I can. I don’t know when my next meal will be. I’ve eaten through worse sicknesses.

Agatha feeds bitesize morsels with her own hands, as I can’t do it myself. I guzzle the water she has brought greedily though. Now that I know it is the cuffs taking my magic, I can feel the dry sucking feeling, and it’s left me parched. The room is quiet apart from my loud gulping, and once the water is gone the silence seems to echo.

After a long moment, Agatha shifts. “I should get going,” she says, but she looks reluctant to leave. I have a feeling it’s because I look so pitiful, so I try to lift my chin higher as I grimace out my agreement.

She pauses at the door. “See you soon, Simon.”  
And then she’s gone, and I’m alone once more.

_Baz_

I have been sitting in my room in shock, trying to wrap my head around the onslaught of information I’ve received in the past few hours. They never found the child that had entered my mother’s chambers that night, so it was assumed they had perished in the explosion that ultimately stole my mother’s life, but no remains were found at the blast site. But to me, it seems obvious what happened. Simon is a powerful mage, too powerful, and who better to experiment on than your own son…

My thoughts tumble and churn like seaweed in the tide, making my feelings murky and unclear. I love Simon. I hate the person who killed my beloved mother. So how can they be one and the same? How could I have been so wrong about him? He who held me so tenderly, and kissed his love into my skin, and whispered my name into my hair in ecstasy.

The clock chimes, breaking me out of my reverie. It’s nearly time to go for dinner. I must get ready quickly if I’m to make my rendezvous with Agatha before then.

I slick my hair back, standing in front of the mirror. Seeing the pain in my own eyes brings a clarity to my thoughts. I hurt for my mother, yes, but also for Simon. He was a pawn in this game between families as much as I am now, my father forcing marriage upon me for the greater good. I have no idea if Simon even knows this part of his past or if, like me, his mind has protected him from the memory.

My hands slow, frozen above my head half way through the motions of combing my hair back, as I come to the inevitable conclusion of my thoughts. Simon may have been the one who killed my mother, but it was his father, Davy Salisbury, who made him an unnatural force, who set him upon my mother like a rabid dog. Simon, my new reason for living, isn’t at fault here.

Resolved in my convictions, I quickly finish readying myself, determined to see our plan to free Simon come to fruition. I still feel stung at his omission, for even if he isn’t aware of his involvement in my family he still knows his parentage. He lied and said his name was Snow. We’ve spoken at length in the days we have been in each other’s company, yet there is still so much left to learn. The only way I will ever truly get to know him is to get him out. 

Agatha is waiting on the upper deck, shivering into a light shawl in the cool evening air. There is no wind but even in the stillness the cold is punishing. I gesture for her to duck into a sheltered alcove in the central column. It’s marginally warmer, especially with our shared body heat filling up the tiny space.

“Simon is fine,” she reassures me in a whisper, but the delicate crease between her eyebrows belies her words.

“What have they done with him?” I ask, surprised at the urgency in my hushed voice. I may still be harbouring some resentment towards Simon, but I ache to be held by him.

“They have him in a room in one of the lower decks, he’s chained to a pipe with magic-sapping handcuffs, ones bearing your family crest,” she tells me. I know the cuffs she’s talking about, an heirloom my Aunt Fiona was excited to try out on the magical criminals she stalked for the coven. I had no idea my father was in possession of them.

“I’ll have to get the key,” I plot out loud. “He must have kept them in the safe with the other family antiques, maybe the key is still there.”

Agatha nods along, eyes wide in the dim light.

“Simon said we should think about getting off this ship on a lifeboat. I agree, it’ll be the easiest way to escape being caught up in customs,” Agatha continues to report. It’s a good idea. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. I will have to ask the Captain, but it’ll have to be subtle. It will do no good to arouse suspicion when we’re still days out from port.

“Ok, alright, I will mention it tonight.”

“What about you? What did your father say?” Agatha asks. I pull up my defences, shuttering off my face to not give away my turmoil.

“It doesn’t matter,” I dismiss. “His past doesn’t matter right now.”  
I don’t want to discuss this further, my feelings on the matter are too raw. I will tell her before our plans evolve much further, she may not feel comfortable being around him once she knows, but not right now. Her brow furrows at the abrupt end of the conversation, but she lets it go.

I take Agatha’s arm in mine and we make our way into the dining room.

My father frowns at our late entrance, but his face softens when he sees who is hanging on my side. He’s probably congratulating himself on straightening me out is so short a timeframe. It makes me feel sick.

Dinner itself passes quickly, and as usual I find myself unable to eat much. It’s only with Simon’s influence that this fact now bothers me. I wait until the lull between the main course and dessert before broaching a conversation with the Captain at the table. He has thus far been regaling us with tales of his adventures on the high seas. Three days ago, I would have envied his freedom, but now I just see it as a different type of cage.

“We are due to make port in New York on the 17th are we not?” I ask the Captain.

“Well,” the Captain smirks. “I have just ordered the final engine lit, so we may even arrive a little earlier than even that!”

“My, how impressive,” Daphne exclaimed. It really is, but it pushes up my timeline a little. I should make plans to get to the safe tonight, just to be sure the key is there. Perhaps when my father takes his evening cigar and port…

“How wonderful,” I manage, drolly, whilst frantically making plans. “Such a large ship to go at such a pace!”

“Oh yes,” the Captain continues cheerfully, having landed on yet another topic he had such passion for. “That’s what £1.5 million of engineering will get you!”

“So you spared no expense,” I prod, wanting to keep the conversation going as I try to come up with a way to naturally introduce the lifeboats into the conversation.

“Not a penny,” the Captain agreed. “We have amenities to entertain even the most distinguished of gentlemen, too, Turkish baths and pools and a gymnasium…”

“Such excess!” I cut in. “Why I wouldn’t be surprised if you even have kitchens and lifeboats to spare!”

I worry that I am being too enthusiastic, that my not-so-subtle insertion into the discussion will make my father suspicious, but all of that is swept away by the Captain’s next revelation.

“Funny you should mention the lifeboats,” he frowns. “There is actually one thing we don’t have too many of. There should be more, given the capacity of the ship, but it was thought that they crowded the upper decks too much. Not enough space to walk along you see?”

“Isn’t that a little short-sighted?” I question. “What if we needed to evacuate?”

“Oh hush, Basilton,” my father interjects. “Why would anyone need to evacuate the whole of the Titanic? It’s not like such a magnificent ship would ever be in danger of sinking. Besides, there are enough for the first-class passengers, and that’s what matters.”

“How can you say that?” I burst out, forgetting myself for a moment. My tension is already high at the thought of smuggling one of very few lifeboats off the ship. Someone is bound to notice. But my father is so callous. The people in the lower classes are still people. They still have a right to life, as much as he or I. My father raises his eyebrow and opens his mouth to talk but is interrupted by the Captain.

“There’s no point in arguing this,” he says, with forced joviality. “Malcolm is right in that this vessel is sturdy. There is no need to worry, because the Titanic simply won’t sink.”

I ready myself to argue further, but out of the corner of my eye I see Agatha shake her head at me. She’s right, of course, I shouldn’t make a scene.

“Of course,” I acquiesce, and resign myself to sitting quietly, making plans while the dinner conversation continues on around me.

It feels like an age before my father and his fellows retire for the evening. I make to withdraw myself, but I am stopped by Penelope Bunce.

“I just wanted to say,” she starts. “I am so sorry for what happened to Simon. If there’s any way I can help,” she gives me a pointed look at this, “then please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Of course,” I nod, maintaining eye contact in the hopes that she realises I understand what she’s offering. She holds my gaze a moment longer then, seemingly satisfied, nods to herself and lets me go.

As much as I am grateful for another ally, the interruption means I have to take more precious moments to work up the nerve once more to head to my father’s quarters. I still have someone tailing me, which hasn’t been a problem so far. But it would definitely look bad if I’m seen entering my father’s quarters when he’s not there, and they would no doubt check the safe if I’m spotted.

I hasten my steps towards my own rooms, turning a sharp corner. I know I will only have a few moments before the man following will catch up so I must do this quickly.

Turning my wand on myself, I light a match inside and say, “ **long time no see.** ”

My hand vanishes in front of my face as my own magic washes over me. The man comes barrelling around the corner and straight past me, continuing on down the corridor and out of sight. My concentration slips, and all at once I am visible again, panting with the effort of holding the spell for even that long. Simon had made it look so easy.

But there is no time to waste, and I step easily from the corridor back into the main passage that leads to my father’s rooms. I furtively glance around before entering, knowing I look suspect but unable to help myself.

Once inside, the safe is easy to locate. It’s hidden by a glamour charm, but I am a Pitch. My father would never have previously had reason to hide such things from me. The code is also easy. I have seen this dial spun many times, and I follow the path easily, stopping at the dates of my mothers birthday. So predictable.

(The love that my father still clearly harbours for my mother makes it hard to truly hate him.)

When I can’t immediately see the key, I feel my heart flutter nervously. I begin to sift through the papers and jewels stuffed in here. There in the back is an ornate box. I hold my breath as I open it, and release it all at once. The key.

I take it out and put it in my pocket. The contents of the safe is carefully stacked back into place, in as close an approximation of how I found it as I can manage. I rush to the door, but something stops me before I open it. Footsteps.

“ **Long time no see** ,” I cast, and not a moment too soon, as the man who had been following me and my father enter the room. I use the open door to my advantage and slip out undetected. I feel drained from the excessive magic use, so once I am far enough away I lean against the wall and catch my breath.

If I return to my rooms right away, it may raise questions as to where I’ve been, so I decide instead to take a walk about the upper deck again. Now that it’s been pointed out, the lack of lifeboats does seem glaringly obvious.

After a while, the chill starts to sink into my bones and I begin to head back inside, but I am stopped by a cry of alarm overhead. A flurry of activity explodes around me and, not wanting to get in the way, I hold myself still against the wall. I’m glad I have something to brace against as the ship starts to shudder and slow.

Above the shouting and clamour of the sailors heading to and fro, I can hear the engines groaning. At first they appear to grind to a halt but then they pick up again, though if anything we are going slower than ever.

I have no idea what is happening, but then I see it.

Looming ahead, a hulking mass of ice breaks through the water. With that to give me a point of reference, it’s clear we are turning away. That must be why we have slowed.

Struck with a sudden curiosity, I make my way to the railing to get a better look. It silently expands in my field of vision, and suddenly I feel sure there is no way we can avoid it. It passes by so closely, I feel like I could reach out and touch it. Chunks of ice shoot over the deck in front of me, causing me to jump back and duck away, heart flying up into my throat.

A terrible screeching fills the silence as we scrape by, but on we continue. We’re still slowing, but for now the danger has passed.

Patting the key in my pocket, I take one last breath before climbing back below deck towards my own rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah the drama unfolds. Let me know in the comments what you think :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Titanic has hit an iceberg... whoops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has read this so far - fair warning, a couple of people have read this chapter before I posted it and cried so... have tissues close to hand I guess...

_Simon_

I am dozing again when I am jerked into consciousness by the wall behind me shuddering and groaning. The sun has gone down while I was sleeping and the room is instead lit by a flickering yellow lamp. Someone must have turned it on and, now that I’m looking around, I can see a tray of bread rolls that has been left too. Clearly, I have missed dinner. (Not that they can do me any good on the table, I can’t reach that far with my hands bound as they are).

The hull continues to creak and clang. It sounds like the metal itself is buckling and the vibrations of it travel up my back like a reverse shiver.

The banging goes on like this for a few minutes, and through the noise I notice a silence. The waves outside, the constant splash of water and wind as we raced through the Atlantic, has ceased. We must have stopped.

But wait, there is the sound of rushing water somewhere, just not where I’m used to. I strain to hear it, and as I do, I can also make out the shouts and clamour. It gets louder and louder until I see shapes passing the port window on the door to my temporary jail. 

What on Earth is happening? If this were any other ship, I would worry that we were sinking but this is Titanic, bigger, faster and stronger than any ship ever built. There’s no way…

More people are rushing past, mostly crew members as far as I can make out. This makes sense I suppose, they wouldn’t tie me up in the living quarters in case any friends on the ship came by to let me out. No-one stops for me, even when I shout out to them. They don’t even look my way, panicked eyes fixed straight ahead.

My head hurts. I want nothing more than to go back to this morning. To that warm bubble I had created with Baz in that sweaty backseat. I ache with it, more than my stolen magic, more than the tight cuffs digging into my wrists and the awkward hunch of my shoulders, I ache for him.

For the time being, it seems there are no more people left to come down this corridor, and the riot of the past few minutes becomes distant and dim. I’m so tired, emptied out like I have never been before. I’ve heard other mages talk of magical exhaustion, when their store of magic runs low and dries up. That when that happens there’s this bone-deep weariness… I’ve never had that happen to me; I’ve always been so full. I understand now. It’s horrible and dry, an insidious sucking at my very core.

A few more minutes pass when the sounds change once more. I can hear the water more clearly. It sounds closer. I look over at the door again and I can see it too. It starts as a spreading wet stain on the lush red carpet but quickly progresses to a trickle, to a gush.

I shout out again, but there’s no one to hear.

_Baz_

I’ve had just enough time to lose my dinner jacket and tie when there comes a knock at the door.

“Enter!” I call. Agatha slips in.

“Did you get it?” she asks, hushed despite the fact we are the only ones here.

I nod, digging into my pocket to show her the success of my evening adventure. She breathes a sigh of relief.

“Did you see the ice?” I query. “We scraped by pretty close and the ship had to stop to turn in time, but I’m sure we’ll get going soon, so we need to plan the next step.”

“I didn’t see it, no,” she answers. “I heard a few of the crew members speaking, but they stopped when I got too close. I hope this doesn’t delay us too much, I can’t wait to get out of here.”  
The more Agatha speaks of freedom, the more she seems to be impassioned by the subject. It’s contagious. I can practically taste it.

“We might have a problem with the life boats,” I say. “I don’t think we’ll be able to sneak one away without being spotted, not with the way they’re all stacked up on the deck. We’d have to do a mass hood-winking charm to get away with it… maybe ‘hidden in plain sight’…?”

I trail off in my musings. Agatha brushes a gentle hand against my shoulder where it rests against the high seat back.

“We have time to figure it out-“ she begins to say, but is interrupted by yet another knocking at the door. I’ve never been so popular.

“Enter!” I call for the second time.

The door swings open to reveal a steward. I’ve seen him around, summoning people to church this past Sunday and reminding the older passengers to come to dinner.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt, Sir, Madam,” he says, sounding anything but. He seems rushed and a little panicked. I sit up, giving him my full attention. “Everyone has been asked to gather in the main dining room and I am to ask you to wear these life preservers.”  
He nimbly steps over to us, handing Agatha and I a formless beige lump, untangling the corded straps from each other as he separates them from the load under his arm.

“What’s happening?” Agatha asks, a faint crease appearing between her brows as she looks down at the life jacket in her hands.

“Just a precaution,” the steward reassures, but he doesn’t seem convinced himself. “Please make your way to the dining hall promptly.”

He scuttles back out my rooms, gone as soon as he came.

“Right,” I say, standing and retrieving a couple of my warmer coats. I hand one to Agatha and she wordlessly dons it, still clutching the life jacket in her hands. I put on my own coat and begin to strap the life jacket to myself, threading the thick straps through the loops with trembling hands.

My mind is a whir of thoughts. Is this because we had to stop? Did we really hit the iceberg that hard that we need to put on life jackets? Surely not. Maybe there’s a fire below deck, that’s more likely. But more importantly, what happens to Simon if we do need to get to safety? Will anyone even remember that he’s being held below deck? I won’t leave him if it comes down to it. I pat my pockets to ensure the key is still safely tucked in there. I’ll get him out tonight, I have to give him a chance to explain his past.

I offer my arm to Agatha. She has followed my lead and put on her life jacket too. It’s quite unflattering, and I can imagine many other ladies protesting the indignity. If life hadn’t given me Simon, maybe Agatha wouldn’t have been the worst companion, taking the blows with stoic calm as she does. She takes my offer, and we make our way to the dining hall.

My whole family are already there waiting for us, even my younger siblings gathered closely to Daphne like shivering ducklings. They have clearly been summoned from their beds as they stand there in their nightwear, even my stepmother. My father is the only one that is still dressed from his late-night sojourns with his smoking friends, though his dinner jacket is draped over Daphne’s bare shoulders to save her from the impudence of her undressed state.

The Wellbeloves are standing nearby, and Agatha pulls us closer to them so she could be with her mother, a frail waifish women who looks set to shake out of her porcelain skin from the cold at this late hour. I let her go to her, but don’t return to my own family. Instead I stand in the no-mans-land between the two families, near Penelope Bunce. She offers me a kind smile, and I attempt to return it, though I can’t say it was overly successful. I don’t get a chance to start a conversation with her though, because an announcement begins.

“Your attention please!” A reedy voice warbles across the room, a silence hushing in its wake. “We would like you to remain calm at this time. An evacuation procedure will begin momentarily, so we ask first for the women and children to gather in groups ready to be taken up to the life boats on the deck-“

This is met with an outraged cry. I hate how entitled the old men here feel, it only makes sense for women and children to go first. And it’s not like they won’t get their turn before all the people on the lower decks. I roll my eyes as the shipman making the announcement tries to get the crowd back under control.

“There will be plenty of room, just please- Please gather women and children first and we will escort them to the boats as soon as they are ready.”  
I find my way back over to Agatha.

“You should get ready,” I tell her.

“But what about our plan to get Simon?” she asks.

“I’ll take care of that, you have to get to safety. There aren’t enough lifeboats for everyone so you have to make sure you get one.”

“But you don’t know where he is-“

“Then give me directions!” I retort. I can feel the tension in myself rising. I take a steadying breath. “Please Agatha, you’ve done enough for us already. Let me take it from here and keep yourself safe.”

“I’ll make sure she does,” Penelope interrupts, taking Agatha’s arm.

“Thank you,” I say on an exhale. Agatha looks put out by this but I can see on her face the moment she realises this is an argument she can’t win. She quickly explains how to get to where Simon is being held on the lower decks in a hushed undertone.

We embrace briefly, not long enough to raise any eyebrows, and I turn to leave. My exit, however, is swiftly blocked by the wall of muscle that has been following me around all day. There’s no way I can run past him without arousing suspicion, and especially not without my father seeing.

I return back to Agatha and Penelope, where they are now wandering closer to the group of women milling around in a loose clump, clucking like hens over their children. I reach Penelope first and pull her aside.

“I can’t get out of here, not with my father watching,” I whisper. Agatha turns her wide eyes to the man standing menacingly nearby. Penelope’s brow furrows for a moment as she scans the room.

“There’s another door over there,” she says, nodding her head to a small serving door on the far side of the hall. “If you go into the group of ladies over there, the ones that are standing close, I can divert his attention and you should be able to slip out. He won’t be expecting a spell from me.” She smirks, clearly enjoying the way men underestimate her when it suits her this way.

“Thank you, Penelope Bunce, I won’t forget this,” I say with feeling.

“Just get Simon safe,” she smiles, patting my hand.

Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I sidle my way into the knot of women, ignoring the way they squawked indignantly at my intrusion. I glanced over at my shadow, but his head was awkwardly craned in the other direction, as if someone had cast a “ **Nothing to see here** ” which I suppose they have. I thank Penelope once more in my head, then slip out the back door.

The corridor the serving door leads to is narrow and unpolished like they are on the lower decks. I follow it round until it comes out into a wider walkway that I recognise. From here I know the way to the lifts. As I make my way there though, I am met with the panicked faces of sailors and serving staff. They try to contain it when they take in me and my well-pressed dress, but it is impossible to hide.

I have to make my way over the open deck and descend into another section of the ship to get to where Simon is being held. There are flurries of activities around the lifeboats as they are untethered from their holds and strapped onto winches, but I don’t have time to watch. Over the shouts I can hear the groan of metal, but other than that the night is icy and still. I weave past the boats, careful not to get in the way of the heavy ropes, and make my way back down into the depths of the ship.

This section of the ship is mostly abandoned, with most of the crew who lived here helping out in other areas. Fortunately for me, the steward manning the lift still stands at his post. I rush over to him, and he takes in my appearance with wide eyes. I can only imagine what I look like, high colour in my cheeks and nose from the exertion and cold, dress shirt flapping open at the collar. 

“Please, I have to go down,” I pant.

“I’m not supposed to-“ he starts but I quickly take out my clip of money that I keep in my inner coat pocket. I don’t bother counting any out, just pressing the whole thing into his hand. There’s more where that came from, and frankly I would burn it all if it meant that I could get to Simon. It feels like I haven’t seen him in days, not just hours.

“Down three floors please,” I insist.

Without another word he pulls back the grating that covers the lift carriage and gestures me in. He cranks us slowly downwards, and as we near my destination I can feel my heart rate ratchet up a little more.

The light from the third floor down starts to spill over our feet as we descend, but more than that is the overwhelming salty scent of rushing water. It hits us a foot from the floor, splashing over our ankles, shocking me with the cold. This is so much worse than I thought. _Fuck,_ I think, w _e might actually be sinking._ The lift steward panics and starts to reverse the lift. I scream out for him to stop and start to wrench the grating away so I can get off on this floor. He pauses just long enough for me to get out but then I am abandoned, water creeping up my trouser legs as it rushes past in a torrential swirl.

It takes a moment for me to get my bearings. Agatha said I had to go to the right, the direction of the current which makes this a bit easier for now. As I wade down the wide service corridor I can feel my feet struggling to find a grip in my dress shoes. I am at risk of being swept away for good, like much of the loose detritus that floats past me.

As I reach the end of the hallway, it takes me another moment to remember which way to turn. I’m usually good with directions but the fear is rising in my throat like bile. It’s clouding my mind and making it so hard to think.

“Simon!” I call out, heading down to the left. “Simon!”

There’s another turn off half way down this corridor, but all the white walls are starting to look the same. Was it another right?

“SIMON!” I cry desperately.

Over the sound of the water breaking against the walls, like the roaring of a tiger in a cage, comes a distant reply.

“SIMON?!”

The reply comes again. I head towards it. As I draw nearer, I can also hear the rattle of metal, like he’s clanging on a pipe.

“Simon?” I call out one more time.

“BAZ!” His voice comes from the door on my left.

I push against the door, but the pressure of the water has made it stiff. I slam against it with my shoulder, but while it shifts a little, it slams back into place with a wet thud. Through the port window I can just about make out his bronze curls. My magic is running so low, but seeing him has once more lit a fire within me.

“ **Out of my way!** ” I yell, thrusting my wand towards the door. It blasts back off its hinges, a little more powerfully than I anticipated, careening into the room and knocking the cabinet onto its side. Metal flashed in the dull, flickering light as the contents of the cupboards slosh into the water. But I don’t care about that, because all I can focus on is him.

I splash my way over to the pipe he’s clinging to. He’s managed to climb up onto what looks like a turned over filing cabinet to get away from the worst of the water but he is still half sitting in it. I fling myself onto him, clutching his head and burying my face to his neck.

Hot tears are coursing down my face, though I was sure earlier I had run out. I decide then and there that I don’t care if he was the one who ultimately killed my mother or not, I am just so relieved to be by his side again.

He moans my name into my hair and I stumble away. That can’t be comfortable. Now that I can see him up close, he looks awful. There are dark circles under his eyes and his skin is sickly and sallow. Even though it has been less than a day, it already looks like his cheeks are beginning to hollow out. Whatever these magic-stealing handcuffs are doing, it’s not good. Simon is usually so full of magic and life, he looks like he’s already half dead with it gone.

“I need - to get - these cuffs off of you.” The water has slowly risen above my waist, my breath now short sharp gasps. I plunge my hand down into my trouser pocket, but the cold has made me imprecise and the water everything slippery. I fumble and the key slips from my grasp.

“No!” I cry, trying to dive after it. The cold water on my face is a thousand needles, air constricting in my lungs as I struggle against the urge to gasp in shock. I surface and try again. I reach the floor with my fingers this time, but instead of one key, I encounter two or three.

In the failing light, I realise the floor is covered in shiny keys. I moan in despair. How can I find the right one? There are so many and the water is still rising.

“Simon, I can’t,” I whimper. “I dropped it, I can’t, there are too many”

I dive down further, trying to see the polished silver, in amongst the bronze and iron. The salt stings my eyes, though, making it impossible.

“Baz,” Simon groans weakly. “Baz, you have your wand…”  
Of course! The situation has gotten to me. But I am a mage, and a Pitch. Here I am bumbling around like a Normal when I could be using magic.

I grip my wand tightly, not wanting it to go the same way as the key.

“G-guiding light,” I stutter out, my teeth beginning to chatter. There’s a brief spark but it doesn’t hold long enough to show me the key. I feel empty and cold, like the flame inside has been extinguished.

“Guiding light!” There is no magic in my words. I guess I am as good as a bumbling Normal after all.

I turn to Simon in anguish. “I can’t do it, I don’t have the magic.”

“Please try,” he whispers.

I close my eyes and concentrate, blocking out all the noise and the pain. I take a breath to centre myself and intone. “ **Guiding light**.”

A spark comes out of my wand but it falls flat and with that brief flare, the lamp splutters out, plunging us into darkness.

“You have to leave me Baz,” Simon croaks, the words thin and painful.

“No, I won’t do that,” I cry, finding his body with my hands once more in the dark and clinging. “There has to be another way.”

“Well unless you can find an axe…” he jokes weakly.

“That won’t work against magic and you know it,” I reprimand, voice thick with yet more tears.

“Then there’s no point in us both going under,” he whispers into my hair. “You have to get out of here Baz.”

“No,” I protest. “I’ve only just got you again, I can’t leave.”

“I love you.”  
My fear and sorrow give way to inarticulate rage. He loves me. He loves me and I can’t do anything to save him! A good-for-nothing rich boy who can’t even find a blasted key. With my anger a new fire ignites in my chest.

“No!” I growl, pulling away from him. “I won’t say goodbye. **Guiding light!** ”

This time a shimmering gold ribbon snakes out from the tip of my wand, spiralling down into the water and landing on the silver key. I dive down after it, snatching it up as the light starts to fade.

I surface with a loud gasp, gripping the key tightly. I will not let go this time. I feel my way back over to Simon, tracing the line of his arms down to where his wrists strain against the cuffs, over the metal, to the keyhole. It takes a couple of attempts, but eventually the key catches against the edge of the hole and slots into place with a faint click that is lost to the ever-present sloshing of water.

_Simon_

The moment the metal falls away from my wrists, I am caught in an updraft of warm arm. It whirls around me and lifts my hair, and for a moment I feel safe and dry. It rushes into me all at once, filling up every crevice that it had left behind, filling out my muscles and soothing the ache in my head. It feels like coming home.

I can breathe again.

Baz starts to sputter and choke, and I can finally understand what people mean when they say my magic smells like smoke. I had never noticed before because it has always been right there. I sweep him up into my arms and press my air into his lungs. He greedily sucks it in, kissing me like a dying man.

“We have to get out of here,” I mutter against his lips. They’re so cold though, I’m sure if I could see them they would be turning blue, so I don’t want to move away.

“Yeah,” he breathes. I can feel him smile as he presses one last kiss to my lips. He’s the one who pulls away, and I miss him already but one of us had to do it. (And it wasn’t going to be me).

I find his hand in the darkness, not wanting to lose him to the currents, and we both plunge ourselves into the flooded hallway. There is some emergency lighting here and it flickers overhead in sickening flashes. Baz leads me up the corridor against the flow, glancing back occasionally as if to assure himself I’m still here. I squeeze his hand.

As we near a turning the noise of water inexplicably gets louder. My eyes widen as I see the swell engulf the intersection. I yell out wordlessly and drag Baz back the other way. There’s no way that we can outrun this, and we are quickly swept away in the current. I clutch at Baz, trying to shield him from the worst of the rubbish that comes barrelling past, pieces of broken furniture and loose personal items. I’m also kicking hard, trying to keep his head above the water. I don’t know if Baz can swim, but the way he’s flailing and gasping for air makes me think not.

We’re nearing an emergency hatch, one with a ladder. I tighten my grip on Baz’s waist with my right hand and reach out with my left to catch the ladder’s rung as we pass. My wet hand slips on the pole closest but I manage to get the other side of the ladder and cling.

My muscles strain against the powerful water but I haul Baz closer so he can grip the ladder too. If he wasn’t wearing such a heavy coat it wouldn’t be such a drag, but once we get to the deck I’m sure he’ll be grateful for the protection so I can’t complain too much. He starts to climb, struggling to find a grip a few times. But I am right behind him and I won’t let him fall.

The hatch is sealed with one of those wheels. Baz tries to reach out but as he leans back to see he wobbles and falls back against the ladder in his effort to correct himself. The clang of his chin hitting the metal vibrates down to my hands. I wince in sympathy, that must have hurt.

I come up closer, pressing his body to the ladder with my own.

“I’ve got you, Baz,” I shout over the torrent of water below us. “I’ve got you, reach out!”

He does, reaching up with both hands, trusting me with his whole weight. The absolute surety he has that I won’t let him fall is as wonderful as it is frightening. My heart swells just at the thought. I was willing to die for this man earlier, and now here he is putting his life in my hands.

With a few grunts, the wheel starts to spin. As soon as the hatch opens, Baz scrambles through into the light and I’m only a few seconds behind him. I slam the hatch down behind me, vindictively locking the water away for the moment.

I hate being scared, especially if it’s something I can’t physically fight. The solid slamming of the metal is as close as I can get to punching the flood water, which will have to be enough for now.

We take a moment to just breathe. I catch his eye as he slumps over, hands on his knees. His wet hair hangs in straggled locks and his eyes are red and salt stung, but he is still so beautiful to me. It feels like I haven’t seen him in years.

I start to smile and laugh in sheer relief that we made it this far. I thought for sure I was going to die in the bowels of this ship. But this crazy fool only came and got me. _Merlin,_ I love him.

I cup his face in my hand, I don’t even remember moving towards him, and pull him to me. Our lips meet again and again, each time his feeling warmer than the last.

_Baz_

I feel like I’m finally home, burning underneath Simon’s hands. Puddles are forming around our feet as we stand here, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Simon starts to mumble against my lips, but I can’t quite make out the words. I pull back, but don’t go far, mapping out each of his moles and freckles with a light kiss. Lips liberated, his words are a little clearer.

“I’m so sorry, Baz, I’m sorry, I love you, forgive me…”

When the meaning finally penetrates the haze in my brain, I pause in my ministrations, holding his face in my hands.

“What are you sorry for?” I ask, pressing my forehead to his. My hair hangs limply down in his face, droplets of water running down his cheeks leaving salty tracks in a hideous parody of tears.

“You nearly died for me, I’m not worth it…” he trails off.

“You are worth it. You’re worth everything!” I mutter angrily into his skin.

“Bu – how – I, you don’t even know me!” he rips himself from me, hands flying up to tug on his damp curls. “I’m a nobody, I’m nothing and I never have been. But you, you’re… You have family, you matter-“

“Yeah no thanks to you,” I interrupt, anger bubbling out of me at this sudden turn. He wants to bring family up as if he has any right after the impact he’s had.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he retorts.

“Oh I don’t know Simon,” I scoff. “Maybe the fact that you’re a fucking Salisbury, and your asshole father-“  
“I am nothing like my father,” he spits back. “That drunk bastard was the worst thing that happened to me, I got away as soon as I could. Don’t you _dare_ –“

“Don’t _I_ dare?! No, don’t you. You let me believe you were an orphan-“

“I never said that-“

“- that you were an orphan and you gave me a fake name-“

“Snow is my name now, I told you he’s dead to me I want nothing to do with him-“  
“Yeah run away from your family, run away from your name-“  
“Oh sure Mr. I’m-going-to-jump-to-escape-my life-of-luxury –“

“-But you can’t run from what you’ve done… and don’t bring that up, this isn’t about me-“  
“What I’ve done?”  
His question brings me up short. At this point we’re leaning into each other’s space, and his magic fills the air around us, catching in the back of my throat.

“What have I done?” he asks quietly. He looks troubled and it mars his beautiful face. He had gone ruddy and blotchy as we shouted, but now he’s starting to go pale.

“You killed my mum,” I whisper. “I mean, I think. You would’ve been a child, but you were a bomb primed to go off. No one thought to stop you.”

As I speak the colour leaches from his face until he looks like a corpse.

“But it wasn’t your fault, I know that. You were just a small child, it was your father. He must have done something to you, to your magic, I don’t know…”

“Baz,” he croaks out. His eyes are brimming with unshed tears. “Baz, I’m so sor-“  
He is cut off by a shuddering jolt as the floor shifts beneath us. We reach out and cling to each other as we once more hear the rushing of water coming our way.

“Now’s not the time for this,” I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him up the corridor.

We reach an intersection but I’ve gotten all turned around and I don’t know which way to go now. Simon pulls us up short, eyes zeroing in on a lone rat scurrying over to the right of us.

“This way,” he says tugging me in the same direction. “The rats always know.”  
I don’t know how true that is but I trust him. I may have just screamed and hurled accusations, but Crowley I would still trust him with my life. (Even if I did have a choice, I would choose him).

As we run along the hallway, I try to organise my thoughts. I shouldn’t have told him like that. It was abundantly clear from his expression that he had no idea about any of this.

“Simon,” I pant. My coat is heavy, especially now that it is wet, and it clings awkwardly as I run. Even if I was fit and healthy I would be tired under its weight, but I am struggling to keep up. “Simon, I’m sorry I said that, I don’t blame you…”

“It’s ok,” he dismisses me. His brow is still creased, but I can’t tell if it’s from the stress of the situation we’re in or from the emotional turmoil I’ve unleashed within him. I wish I could tell what he was thinking.

_Simon_

I don’t know what I’m thinking.

Sometimes it’s easier to just not think.

Survival is the most important thing now, we can work out the rest later.

That’s all well and good in theory, though it seems no one has given my magic the memo. It’s been so long since I’ve had to deal with this level of stress and, like then, I feel uncontrollable. I feel like I wouldn’t be able to cast even the simplest spell without blowing up.

So I’m not thinking about it.

_Baz_

I can hear the faint rabble of a crowd up ahead. At the next intersection we get to, we see them to our left, all crowded against a closed grate.

As we approach, I can see there’s a steward on the other side. He is red in the face, shouting down at the people.

“What’s going on here?” I demand, putting as much authority in my voice as I can, but it’s lost to the din. A man on the edge of the crowd looks over, taking in my measure.

“They’re not letting us through,” he says with an Irish lilt. “These BASTARDS are keeping us down here to drown!”

Some of the women titter at his brash words as children clutch at their skirts.

Simon starts to force his way to the front of the crowd. Once he’s at the grating, his hand shoots out, catching the steward by surprise. His face is dragged right up to the bars where Simon is leaning in menacingly.

“There is water coming up from the depths of the ship, are you really going to let these people drown?” He growls. The only reason I can hear is because the crowd has suddenly gone silent. It’s hard to tell if it’s because they too want to hear him, or as a side effect of Simon’s wayward magic which seems almost visible in his agitation. “Do you really want that on your head?”  
“I-I’ve been given orders,” the pathetic man splutters out. “Unhand me, there’s nothing I can do.”

Simon drops him like a useless sack of potatoes.

“Fine then,” he mutters. He grabs me as he brushes past. “We’ll have to find another way out.”

As we re-enter the hallway we had just come from, a chill passes up my spine as I realise in just a few short minutes the floor had a creeping layer of water inching up the walls. Simon pays it no mind and pulls me into it. He half guides, half drags me through a twisting maze of hallways, the water getting higher and higher as we go.

He’s about to head down yet another hall when a cry in the opposite direction catches our attention.

Under a flickering light, a small child stands in a doorway. The water is up to their waist and they cry out wordlessly for someone who is no longer here.

“Come here,” Simon calls over the rushing water, but the child doesn’t respond. “Kid! Come here!”

Simon pushes me down the way we were heading and sprints towards the child. He scoops them up, cradling them close to his broad shoulders as he wades his way back to me. The shushing noises he makes to soothe the child is lost to sound of water, but the child is already quieting against him. The flickering light reflects off of the surface of the water, making strange highlights dance across their faces.

It’s entirely inappropriate but I can feel my heart melting at the sight. I can almost see this in another time and place. In a house on an American street, warm and dry. Simon sleeping on a coach, a child slumbering peacefully on his broad chest as the firelight flicks crackling shadows over them.

I’m broken out of my dream as Simon catches up with me and continues on past. He seems to know where he’s heading this time, and that’s made apparent when, within the next few turns, we come out at another grate. There are only a few people here, and no one guarding the other side.

The woman clutching hopelessly at the grate turns her glassy eyes towards us. She seems shaken when she sees the child on Simon’s shoulder and she cries out wordlessly, reaching for him. The child finally responds and reaches for her too. The reunion is touching, though I have to wonder why she left them in the first place.

There are a few men here, rattling the grating. It looks like they’re trying to find a way to knock it over. This is a simple matter for magic, a simple “ **open sesame** ” would even unlock the padlock. And without anyone on the other side to notice…

But I am out of magic. I’m completely dry after Simon’s rescue.

“Out of the way,” I announce. “Simon here can pick the lock, we’ll get you out of here.”

Simon looks over at me with wild eyes from where he was gently reassuring the mother of the child. He shakes his head imperceptibly but the men back away. “Hurry then,” they say as they usher Simon to the lock.

_Simon_

I don’t know what Baz is playing at. I can’t lock pick this, I’ve only ever used magic to open locks and that’s not an option. I can feel it whipping round me like an invisible hurricane. I can’t catch it and wrangle it to my will for something this delicate.

“Baz,” I nod him over. “I can’t, I can’t control my magic… I don’t want to hurt anyone. Can’t you do it?”  
Baz shakes his head at me. “I can’t either, I’m out.”

Panic is clawing at me behind my eyes. I can feel the pressure and I want to scream. If anything this makes my magic worse. Baz looks so calm, a stoic mask settled over his features like when I first saw him on the deck scowling at me as I laughed. If I could only give him some of my magic, he could probably do something with it.

My thoughts grind to a halt.

Why can’t I?

Without thinking on it any further, I reach out and grab Baz’s hand. I close my eyes and _push._

_Baz_

I don’t know what he’s doing, but it feels like dozens of bolts of electricity sparking across my skin. It fills me up, lighting up my dark corners.

It feels like magic.

I look over at Simon with wonder, at his face closed off in concentration, and I realise that’s exactly what it is. He’s giving me his magic.

I take another moment to revel in the feeling. But there’s a job to do and the numbness is starting to creep up my ankles.

I subtly pull out my wand and mutter, “ **open sesame**.”

The lock falls away with a clang and the grate flies open in a way that shouldn’t have been possible with the water pressing on both sides. I feel so powerful.

The small crowd breaks the moment, pushing Simon and I apart as soon as the way is open. As he drops my hand, it’s like the colour suddenly drains from the world once more. Like I have never realised just how blind I have been until he showed me the light and now I am once more plunged into the dark.

_Simon_

I am so thrilled that that worked but I want to be out of this water, so I let the crowd sweep me along instead of staying to celebrate. We quickly make our way up to the surface and it’s like a disturbed ant nest with the buzz of activity on deck.

There are some lifeboats that seem almost ready to board, so we head over to them. When we near though, a scuffle breaks out. Some of the men seem to be trying to force their way into a crowd of women and children, only to be held back by uniformed crew members. Shouts carry easily over to us, as do the children’s cries.

“Only women and children,” one of the crewmen yells. “Get back! Wait your turn!”

Baz and I exchange a look. If it’s only women and children, there’s no point in continuing over there. I don’t want to get caught up in yet another fight. We start to back track, but Baz freezes at my side. I follow his gaze. It’s his father.

Malcolm isn’t looking at us, his gaze trained on his wife and children, huddled together in the large group at the edge of the deck. I’m relieved to see Penny and Agatha among them too. They’re good people. I try to tug Baz away, I don’t want to cause a scene by walking free in front of the man who detained me, but he won’t budge.

“Baz,” I hiss, trying to get in his line of sight. “Baz come on lets go.”

“I-“ he seems at a loss for words. His cool demeanour is cracking like thin ice. I see the splinters of uncertainty feather out around his eyes as he looks past his father at his siblings, his stepmother, his friends.

The eldest girl, who had previously been gripping tight to a porcelain doll, drops it in favour of excitedly pointing our way. “Baz!” she cries. She tries to head in our direction but Daphne, already juggling the three youngest, just about manages to catch her collar. Agatha quickly takes the baby from her as he starts to cry from being jostled from his sleep.

At the commotion, Malcolm turns to see us standing there. My heart leaps into my throat as I see a number of emotions pass quickly over his face before settling into a scowl. I instinctively take a step back but, where I had tangled my fingers with Baz’s before, now acts as an anchor, holding me in place.

A shiver runs through Baz, I can feel the tremor where we’re joined, so I push a little more magic at him in the hopes it’ll warm him like it does me. A pale flush reaches his cheeks as he looks over at me. It’s like there’s a night sky in his eyes, the deep grey sparkling like stars.

_Baz_

He’s filling me up with his magic once more, warming me like the sun. His eyes are the clearest blue sky of a hot summer’s day. I want to get lost in them forever and forget this wretched time and place.

We must have gotten caught up in each other for too long, because we are interrupted by the shadow of my father falling across us as he steps in front of the cabin light. Simon startles, and tries once more to pull his hand away. But I don’t want him to go any more than I want to abandon my family.

My father may be the source of the majority of my strife, but I know he means well. He loves me in his own way, and he did his best after mother died. I don’t want this to be the last moment either of us has with the other. The ship is sinking, whether we want to believe it or not, and there’s a chance I’ll never see him again.

Shame courses hotly through me as he takes in the way I lean into Simon. His son, Natasha’s son, curled up against the arm of her killer, knowing that’s what he is and loving him anyway. I want to tell him that he’s wrong, that it’s not Simon’s fault… I want to tell him that I’m happier like this, that I never meant to disappoint him, but he let me down first. I want to tell him everything, but all that comes out of my mouth is a cloud of hot air, billowing like smoke.

“Basilton,” my father greets, his face stony, eyes sharp. He doesn’t acknowledge Simon, for which I’m grateful. I couldn’t face having to rescue him for a second time. (I would still do it, of course, but I don’t think either of us could survive it again). “I have a… an arrangement with a porter on the other side of the ship. There’s a space on a lifeboat for you there. Please take it.”

“Is there room for Simon?” I ask. There’s no way I would go without him. Not after everything. But my father is already shaking his head.

“There’s only one,” he replies. “It was meant for me, but…” He falters, voice cracking from his usual sombre monotone. “Son, I want you to take it.”

A wordless gasp escapes me. I can feel a pressure behind my eyes, a tingling spreading from the tip of my nose, as I fight back the tears that threaten to overcome me once more this evening. I turn into Simon’s shoulder, burying my head against his neck.

“But what about you?” I whisper into his skin. His hand shakily comes up to brush my damp hair back. A light chuckle dances over the strands.

“I’ll be fine,” he says. I lean back to look him in the eyes as he continues. “There will be another boat along soon enough. My magic will keep me warm until then.”

“But-“ I start to protest, but he cuts me off with a swift kiss.

“But nothing,” he says as he pulls away. “I love you. So you had best look after yourself and get that boat, you hear? Stay safe for me.”  
The dam breaks behind my eyes, hot salty tears overflowing onto my cheeks.

“I love you too,” I sob. “I will. I will stay alive for you Simon. But you have to promise you’ll come back to me.”  
“I promise, always,” he whispers back.

We cling to each other desperately for another moment before he pulls back with a falsely cheerful smile.

“Come on darling, don’t cry,” he says, wiping the tears away with his calloused thumb. “You’ve got a boat to catch.”

I scoff at him, but allow him to pull me away. We follow my father over to a quieter area of the deck. One of the boats is rigged up and ready to be lowered into the icy sea below. One of the crewmen hastily approaches my father. They have a hushed conversation, a clip of money changes hands and is quickly stowed away.

“Come on Basilton,” my father calls, gesturing to the boat. A number of other gentlemen are already huddled together in the cold. I notice a couple of crewmembers too, hiding their uniforms with blankets, faces turned in shame.

“Go on,” Simon encourages. “I’ll see you later, yeah.”

“See you later,” I say, reluctantly letting go.

I clamber into the boat, settling on the hard bench, pressed painfully into the wooden siding by the portly man next to me. We get winched up and swung out.

With a sickening lurch, we slowly begin out descent. Just as we pass the lip of the deck, I look once more at Simon. A single tear glistens in the low light.

We may have said see you later, but to me it felt like goodbye.

_Simon_

_Goodbye Baz,_ I think as he slips out of sight.

“Good lad,” Malcolm says to me gruffly.

I look over at his weathered face. He may have seemed a villain to me just hours earlier, the man who kept Baz from living his life, who tried to force us apart, but now all I can see is a heartbroken father.

“Well I already saved his life once, don’t want that hard work to go to waste,” I joke weakly. Just thinking about that night wrenches my heart. If I had been anywhere else, if I hadn’t held on tight enough… The world is a better place with Baz in it, of that I’m sure.

Even if I don’t get to see it.

I know my odds of getting out of this alive are slim to none. Even with all the magic in the world, there’s nothing I can do to stop this ship going down. And I’m not going to take some poor soul’s seat in a lifeboat when I know for a fact there aren’t enough; a blind man could see the space they should’ve taken up. I suppose this is poetic justice. I’ve lived long enough to save Baz after being an instrument in the war that killed his mother, and now my time is up.

I just hope he will find a way to go on without me.

I shakily blink the tears away. I might not be able to save myself, but I can help the crew as much as I can while I’m still standing.

As I turn to do just that, I’m stopped by a rising shout coming from where the lifeboat has just disappeared over the edge of the deck. I run to the edge to look over.

_Baz_

I don’t want to say goodbye.

I don’t want to go back to the life I had before. I can’t let my father save me just so I can go on doing what he says, marrying who he wants me to. What’s the point of survival if surviving is all I’ll ever do? I want to _live_.

I want Simon.

If there is even the slightest chance either of us wouldn’t survive this night, I’d rather spend every last minute in his arms. It’s not like me to not think things through, but I’m running on vapours right now.

I stand to a disgruntled snort from the man next to me. We’re passing an opening in the side of the ship, a balcony on one of the lower decks. I can make that.

Without another thought, I brace myself against the side and leap out. I catch the balcony railing in the stomach, knocking the wind from my lungs. Behind me, the other occupants of the lifeboat shout out as my momentum sends them swinging outwards.

As I struggle to catch my breath, a strong pair of hands grasp at my back and hauls me onto the ship. I look up at my rescuer just in time to see him launch himself off the railing towards my now-vacated spot on the boat. He leaps into the air in a graceful arc, but he mistimes the jump with the rocking of the boat, still reeling from where I had kicked off. His face smashes hard against the side, blood spraying out of his mouth in dark droplets as his head snaps back. He tumbles down into the icy waves below.

I look on, frozen in horror. That could have easily been me. And I didn’t even get a chance to thank him.

But for now, I needed to find Simon.

_Simon_

No.

It can’t be him.

I reach the railing just in time to see a dark figure plunge into the water, and Baz’s spot on the lifeboat is conspicuously empty.

No no no no no. He couldn’t… would he? Why would he…? Would he really jump? After everything, after all we’ve been through?

Maybe he saw through my lies… Then again, maybe it was stupid of me to think that anything I had done had changed him in any way. He was going to jump before I came along, what could I have done to change that? A useless nothing like me, who’s only accomplishment is killing his _mother._

Crowley, he had just found out about that, he must have been devastated, but I was too preoccupied with getting off the ship to even notice. I can feel my heart breaking in two, cracking cleanly down the middle.

I’m sorely tempted to dive after him. But living with this pain, even for the last moments on this sinking ship, is to be my penance. I don’t deserve to go so quickly.

My magic lashes out uncontrollably. A nearby rigging starts to unfurl too quickly, the crewman manning the rope letting go with a cry as he holds up his red-raw palms. The boat comes crashing down onto the deck and a mob of people descends upon it, trying to turn it over and secure their place.

More and more people are filtering onto the deck, waves of people crashing over each other like the waves below. A shot rings out over the crowd, and another. It’s too much. I cry out, voice lost in the clamour, and sink down against the railings. I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see stars.

I can feel my magic build up inside of me, an explosion waiting to happen. It becomes eerily quiet around me, though when I peer through my fingers there is still movement and brightly flashing flares burning red in the distance. I must have silenced them somehow.

I bury myself back into my hands and try to breathe, but the air gets caught on a lump in my throat and comes out as a sob. I can’t… I CAN’T. Can’t _what_ I don’t know, I just know I cannot do it.

Not without him.

_Baz_

It’s not hard to find my way back up to the top deck. I have landed near the small chapel, and from here I can cut through the balconies encircling the dining hall to get to the main staircase up. As I pass though the dining hall, I see some of the older first-class passengers sitting and sipping scotch as water swirls around their ankles. I would say they seem unbothered if not for years of practise seeing through the “stiff-upper-lip” façade.

I don’t stop for them though. They’ve made their choice.

As I near the stairs, there are more people flooding up from below. I get swept along with them up to the top deck just as gunshots start to ring out in the still night air.

There is a thick fog of magic up here, familiar as it catches at the back of my throat. I follow it blindly to the source, but I am buffeted back and forth in the crowd until I get turned around.

“Simon!” I call. “SIMON!”

There are too many people. A flash of curls here, a tawny freckled face there, but none of them him.

Another boat is being lowered, there are only a few left. There’s no way it’s full to capacity but the overworked crewmen are fighting off the hoards as they winch it overboard. More people are going the way of my earlier rescuer, flinging themselves over the railing after vacant seats. Not many make it.

There are still too many people, but over the cacophony I hear the strains of a violin.

It seems so incongruous a sound, but it is quickly joined by the rest of a quartet. I drift towards it, letting the music fill me. It reminds me of my mother’s violin, still stowed in my quarters somewhere. The way it soothed me when I played, the way it rekindled my magic when I was too tired to even light a candle. I feel it now, the magic begin to return, tingling in my fingertips that had previously been numbed by the cold.

The music is a siren song across the dark waves. And it seems I’m not the only one in its thrall. There are a couple of young men I vaguely recognise. They aren’t in my family’s inner circles, but they are mages I have met before.

“You there!” I call to them. Two of them look my way, but the third just slumps tiredly against one of the inner walls.

I don’t know what to say, but the hopelessness of the situation is starting to get to me again. Maybe Simon is already on another boat like he promised. If that’s the case, I need to find a boat to get onto as soon as possible.

Looking around I could see that there were clearly more people than spaces, just like the captain had said. But we are mages, for Merlin’s sake! We can make a boat, surely. Or at least duplicate one of the boats already there. The idea takes shape in my head as I approached my peers.

“What do you want Pitch?” the taller one spits.

“I have an idea,” I say impatiently. “We can double one of the lifeboats-“

“Double the – no. You’ve lost your head Pitch.”  
“What are you…? There’s no way we can keep that up, it would disappear in the sea.”  
“Bugger off, mate. I’m tapped, no way…”  
They all protest, one over the top of the other.

“No listen. If we pool our magic and cast the clapping game **double this** it would work!”

They still seem dubious, but there’s no time, so I start to pull the tall one (I wish I could remember their names) towards the nearest boat. The others follow like sheep.

“We have to link hands,” I instruct. “Do you know the rhyme?”

All three nod. Good. There are some crew members starting to untie the harnessing to prepare for boarding, but we need to clear the area. I can still feel the tingle from the music, so I flick them away with a quick “ **nothing to see here**.”  
We quickly gather in a loose semi-circle, touching skin to skin.

“ **Double double this this, double double that that, double this, double that, double double this that.** ”

We chant it again and again. The magic fills me, channelled through my ivory wand. It’s not anywhere near the power I got from Simon but it feels like a clean fresh breath. The air shifts around us as another boat materialises on the deck. It is solid and strong.

The boys behind me whoop and start to clamber over, preparing the ropes.

“Come on Pitch!” they call. But I can’t. I need to check that Simon has made his way to safety and, despite everything before this night, I can’t leave my father. He gave me his lifeboat space, it’s the least I could do in return.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, backing away and breaking out into a jog. I hope they’ll wait long enough, but at least I can live with the fact I’ve helped save a few more people.

_Simon_

I have no idea how much time has passed.

I have created a bubble of peaceful misery where I am determined to spend the rest my time, right here where I can’t hurt anyone. But the universe seems to have other plans for me as a person stumbles right into my lap, jolting me out of my trance.

All of a sudden, the sound returns to me. The screams.

There is a huge rush for one of the last remaining lifeboats nearby. The person who has landed on me seems to have come from the swarm, and she immediately scrambles up to rejoin the throng. People are falling and being pushed down and trampled on. A small child stands on the edge, crying wordlessly.

A loud clang reverberates in the cold air, and suddenly the crowd heaves. As if the world has slowed, I see one of the adults stumble back into the child, pushing them up to the side where they teeter and begin to fall.

I run.

My hand shoots out, grasping the fine cotton of the child’s shirt just as they plummet over the edge. I haul them back onboard, clutching the child to my chest. The child, a little boy, has stopped crying but is instead sucking in high pitched breaths. I think he might be in shock. I carry him away from the edge before leaning heavily on an inner wall to rock and hush him.

Gunshots are ringing out again. There are shouts and screams and gunshots, but all I can focus on is the boy in my arms. He has started to cry again, soft hiccupping sobs.

“Hey now,” I murmur. “Hey, shh shh, it’s ok, I’ve got you…”

But then, I don’t have him.

He’s ripped from my grasp by a man shrouded in a blanket.

“Hey!” I shout after him.

“I need him for a seat,” he calls. The boy is wailing again, struggling in the mans too-tight grip. Other people seem to be converging on them, hands grabbing at the child. I give chase.

It’s not hard to catch up, but in order to get the man to let go, I have to punch him in the face. His head snaps back, nose immediately starting to bleed, but it works. I pull the child free with a firm but gentle touch. He buries his snotty face into my neck, but people are still advancing.

I need to get him to the boat, but how to get him through the crowd?

“ **Make way for the king** ” I mutter under my breath, closing my eyes in desperation as I try to get my magic to focus. I peek out, but no one has moved.

 _If only Baz were here,_ I find myself wishing, _he would – he could…_

But I can’t finish the thought. It’s too painful, and my magic is starting to lash out again.

“ **Make way!** ” I shout out, magic exploding out of me. This time, the people around me are shunted outwards, as if blown over by a strong wind. (The night remains as still as ever).

I stride over to the boat, people feinting left and right as I make my way through the masses. The boat is almost at capacity, so I hand the child over to one of the women sitting there. She already has a child clutching at her skirt.

“Please,” I say. She simply nods.

Then I turn and walk away. I can hear them winching up the boat behind me, but I don’t look.

I think I catch a flash of black hair turning a corner, and my heart leaps into my throat before sinking down into my stomach. It can’t be him. It never will be again.

I want to curl up again.

I want the world to stop.

I want him.

Instead of curling up in my misery, I start to angrily pace. My hands find their way into my hair again.

“What was he thinking?!” I mutter harshly to myself. “Why Baz? Why did you do that you stupid- you moron! I – Just – You were safe… You were SAFE!”

I try to punch the wall, but I stumble.

The floor is tilted. The whole ship is going under, bow first.

There are still people scrambling around on the deck, flinging themselves over the edges in a desperate attempt to reach the boats. They’ll be sucked under by the ship in no time. They need to get to the stern.

I couldn’t save Baz, but there’s still time to save as many people as I can. Taking one last fortifying breath, I start to move.

“Get to the stern! Move up!” I yell. A few people look around, but most just ignore me. Perhaps I need to lead by example. I start to move up the deck. It’s like climbing uphill, and its only getting steeper.

“Come on! Get up to the stern!”

I have a few people following me now as I get further up the deck. Ebb always used to say I had a hero complex too big for my body to contain. I can feel it now.

Someone ahead of me slips, but instead of getting back up they start to slide down towards me. I grab them, both of us slipping a few more feet before I get them back on their feet.

“Simon?”

My head whips around. I know that voice.

“Baz…” I whisper. My breath clouds the air around me, obscuring my view. But then he’s there.

He’s pale, like a ghost, but I feel him solid beneath my hands.

“Baz,” I say again. “I- I thought you were dead.”

“Dead?” Baz looks confused. “Why would I be-? No matter we have to go.”  
He’s right of course. We both struggle up the deck, gripping stubbornly onto each other. There’s no way I’m ever letting him go.

More and more people are falling, raining down either side of us. We pass a small group of people clinging to each other, praying and crying, but there’s no time to help them all.

We reach the back railing, hearing the splashes of all those who haven’t made it.

“We should climb the railing,” Baz says, eyes sharp and clear as he assesses the situation. I get caught up in drinking in his features. His glass-cut cheekbones, his long aristocratic nose, his beautiful stormy grey eyes. “Simon!”

I snap out of it.

“Yes, we should climb.”  
We both haul ourselves up and over. The people around us at the railing have begun to do the same. Just as I settle myself against the hard metal, the ship gives a sharp judder and all those who weren’t in place slip and fall. One of them hits a funnel wrong and is dead before they even hit the water, others splatting against the ocean surface like it’s wet concrete.

Baz makes a distressed noise, and I look over to see him shaking with the effort to hold on. He doesn’t have the strength I do, his arms childlike compared to mine. I scoot myself over and secure him with my own body just as he starts to slip.

_Baz_

He presses me against the rail, but I still feel like I’m going to fall. Seeing those people fall like that, it makes me feel sick. Even though Simon has me held fast, I still scrabble around to get a better grip on the railing.

“Don’t struggle,” he breathes hotly against my ear. “I’ve got you now.”

It takes me back to another time. How times have changed. Then I would have given anything for the sweet release of death, but faced with the grim reality of dying in these waters… I have so much more to lose now than I could ever have believed even a few days ago. A future. A life worth living.

I relax back against Simon’s broad chest. I trust him.

“You said that when we met,” I smile, a small sad smile, but I mean it with all my heart.

“When we met,” he huffs. “Right here, wasn’t it?”

I can hear that he is smiling too.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”  
“Thank you.”

“For what?”  
“For saving me.”  
Simon is silent for a long moment. Around us the water rushes and more people fall. The ship is groaning and sticking up into the sky. I’m sure the stars would be beautiful, like Simon’s freckles cast into the night, but all I can see is the devastation below.

When Simon finally answers, his voice is thick and wet.

“I wish,” he starts. “I wish we had more time.”

“I know.”  
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he says into my hair. I can feel him pepper kisses there between breaths. I want to turn into them, but I’m scared to fall so I stay still. “I can’t Baz. I can’t do this without you.”  
“Simon,” I whisper. “Simon you have to promise me.”

“What?”

“You have to promise, for me, that no matter what happens tonight, you’ll carry on…”

“Don’t say that,” he says, a harsh edge to his voice. “You’re not going anywhere, I’ve got you.”  
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay quiet. But I mean it. The night isn’t over, and I can’t guarantee I’ll make it. But death doesn’t seem like much compared to the thought of a world without Simon, even if I’m not there to see it.

“I wish we were vampires,” Simon whispers into my hair.

“What?”

Where had that come from?

“I wish we were vampires,” he repeats. “Then we would have forever.”

My heart skips in my chest. Even in the bitter cold, I suddenly feel warm all over.

“I love you,” I breathe.

“Love you,” he mumbles back.

We cling to each other. We cling to this moment we’ve carved out for ourselves in the face of disaster.

_Simon_

I can feel my tears soaking into Baz’s already saturated hair.

The ship is groaning again. Cracks are starting to form over the deck.

It’s going to break in half.

I look around, trying to think past the haze of grief that has settled over me again. There’s a rope dangling from a pole. I could reach it, but I’d have to let go of Baz.

“Baz,” I say. “I have to let go, but only for a moment I promise. Can you hold on?”

I feel him shift underneath me. Once he settles, he nods.

“Yes I can,” he says through gritted teeth.

There’s not much time, so I heave myself up, swiping at the rope. It takes a few tries, but eventually I catch it. I quickly return to Baz and start to wind the rope around us and the railing.

It’s secured just in time.

With a deafening crack, the top of the ship comes crashing backward. The air rushes through my hair and for a moment I am weightless. For a moment I am flying.

_Baz_

My stomach leaves my body as, with a sickening lurch, we go plummeting backwards.

I once went to a fair when I was young. I went on the swinging pirate ship with my Aunt Fiona and I threw up all my dinner and cried. I didn’t like the feeling then, and I certainly don’t like it now. (Though I doubt Simon would laugh at me the way Fiona did if I threw up right now.) (I wonder if he’s ever been to a fairground…)

This is also infinitely more terrifying.

The only thing stopping me from breaking down in shock and fear is the solid line of heat against my back. Even amidst my terror, there’s a tiny voice in the back of my mind that is so relieved I found him before the end. 

The water is freezing as it splashes up our backs. Some of the people nearby are flung off of the railings as we crash down, but Simon and I are secure. For now.

The deck, or what’s left of it, is tipping again as the ship is dragged under the waves. Once more we are lifted up into the air.

As we near the precipice, Simon starts to undo all the ropes securing us to the railing.

“Wh- what are you doing?” I stammer.

“I have to untie us or we’ll be pulled under. When I say so, you have to hold your breath and kick upwards. Ok Baz?”

“Y-yeah ok,” my teeth are chattering in the cold.

“There’s gonna be a lot of force trying to pull you down, but you have to kick hard. And don’t stop ok?”  
I nod jerkily in response, eyeing the water as it roils and turns beneath us, getting closer every second.

“Ok, good…” Simons says. Then after another long moment, “hold your breath now!”  
I gulp in one last breath before I am engulfed in ice-cold water. It makes me want to gasp, to stretch my skin back out as it tightens against my skull. The shock of it holds me still, even though I know with each passing second I am being dragged further down.

The shock passes quickly and, even though it feels like swimming in syrup, I start to kick. I can’t tell which way is up, having tumbled around in the eddies created in the ship’s wake, but I trust that my life jacket will give me the buoyancy I need.

Just as the air in my lungs starts to burn, I break the surface. I gasp and cough, salty water sloshing into my open mouth causing me to splutter even more. I bob with the waves, feebly kicking still. Now that I’m in the water, there are so many bodies here with me. Some are still alive, trying to find pieces of debris to pull themselves out of the cold, but most are already dead. One man is insistently blowing on a whistle. It grates at my already frayed nerves.

I can’t see Simon.

He didn’t have a life jacket on.

I paddle around frantically, turning this way and that in an effort to catch sight of him.

“Simon!” I call, but it is lost over the din of splashes and cries. “SIMON!”

My voice is hoarse, phlegm rising in my chest against the bitter cold, and I choke on my next cry of his name.

A large chunk of wood comes into my path as I splash helplessly around. I cling to it, resting my upper torso on it. I try to clear my throat, puffing and panting.

I’m so cold.

I think I would cry, but it seems I have finally run out. The splashing and commotion carries on around me, but now that I’ve lowered my head I can’t bring myself to lift it to look around.

“Simon,” I croak against my folded arms.

_Simon_

The water is dragging me under and, as I struggle to kick out, the rope that had been our salvation wraps around my ankle like a noose. I open my eyes despite the sting of salt.

It’s dark and the only thing I can make out is the shimmering of bubbles as the air escapes my clothes. As I adjust to the darkness, I can just about make out the knot of the rope against the stark paleness of my calf. My fingers find the join but they are already stiff with the cold and I fumble.

Panic claws up my throat as my breath fights to escape me. My ears give a painful squealing pop as I sink, bright spots dancing across my vision.

Despite the cold, heat simmers under my skin. My eyes close again as it bursts out of my body, the rope disintegrating as I rocket up to the surface. I gasp as the sharp air hits my face, my torso launching out of the waves before I come crashing back down.

It takes a long moment of gasping and gulping in air and seawater in equal amounts before I get my breath back. Treading water is starting to tire me out, so I swim over to a chunk of something floating in the water and hold on. I start looking around, trying to take stock, but more importantly to find Baz.

“Baz?” I choke out. My voice has gone hoarse from the sheer amount of salt water it’s seen in the last few minutes. I violently clear it and try again. “Baz!”

I crane my neck, trying to catch a flash of black hair against the black sea. In the distance there are the lifeboats and in the vast expanse between me and them are a littering of bodies and debris.

“Simon.”

A whisper of my name carries across the water. (Even over some obnoxious whistling coming from an overzealous man clinging to what looks like an overturned deckchair). My head snaps around to where it came from.

“Baz!” I call again, but I don’t think he can hear me, my voice still too quiet to carry.

I swim in the direction I think the sound came from but it doesn’t come again. Although there’s no wind tonight, the water is choppy from the people churning it and the bubbles still erupting from the ship. I feel like I’ve been spun around. Am I even heading in the right direction anymore?

I don’t know.

“BAZ!” I cry out once more, and from the corner of my eye I see a head pop up from where it was resting against a door-shaped chunk of wood.

“Baz?” I choke out in relief. I abandon my scrap of wood and swim over to him, my limbs somehow still cooperating even though it’s getting hard to feel them.

“Simon?” he replies, his eyes gaunt in his sallow face.

How is it that he can look like he’s been through hell, like death warmed up (though from the way he’s shivering probably not so warm) and yet he is still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen?

We collide, my hands going to his waist to keep him above the water line, but with his life jacket he doesn’t need much help. If anything it helps me keep from tumbling back under as he grasps at my face, pulling me to him. He whispers my name like a prayer.

After a long moment, I pull us back over to the wood he was resting against. It looks like the panel above the dining room door. I boost him up onto it, and he scrabbles around for a moment as it bobs and sways under his slight weight. Once he’s settled I try to pull myself onto it too, but it tips and sinks under the both of us combined so I slide back into the water.

“It won’t hold both of us,” I huff.

“Then you take it,” Baz says, slipping down into the water with me.

“That’s ridiculous, you’d die in the water.”  
“I’ll die anyway, Simon.”  
I can see in his dark eyes that he really believes that.

“No,” I whisper. “No there has to be a way.”  
If there was a way for us both to be out of the water… If the piece of wood was just a bit bigger, a bit more buoyant…

Then again we are both mages. Surely there’s a spell that could work. I rack my brains, trying to come up with the right words.

“Baz, is there a spell to make the door bigger?”

He looks at me, brow creasing in thought. “Making a mountain out of a m-molehill? Maybe?”

There’s no time to lose. I concentrate on the wood, on my barely controlled magic, and cast, “ **making a mountain out of a molehill**.”

Too much magic bursts out of me and the ocean around us heaves and swells before settling once more. The door panel remains unchanged. Baz looks dazed at the outpouring of magical energy.

“I don’t have the control…” I lament. Then again, I’ve lacked control all night but channelling my magic through Baz… I snatch up his hand and push.

He gasps at the inflow of energy, his eyes momentarily brightening up in the moonlight.

“Cast it.”  
“ **Making a mountain out of a molehill**.”

But nothing happens.

“Why isn’t is working?” I cry.

“I d-don’t know,” Baz says through chattering teeth. “M-maybe there aren’t enough people for the magic to work?”

With the number of people dead in the water, and countless others still trapped in the ship itself, that makes sense. But that doesn’t help us now. If we can’t use magic what else is there?

Baz continues to shudder against me, his entire body rattling with the force. I press some more magic into him and it subsides a little.

“Get on the door Baz,” I say, pushing him up onto it again. But he twists in my grasp, plopping himself into the water by my side.

“No, it should be you,” he insists.

“Baz, you-“  
“No Simon, it should be you. I was always going to end up in these waters, you just won me a few more beautiful days. I love you for that… I love you. Please just…” he trails off.

Well if he’s going to be stubborn about it, I’ll get on and out of the water. But as long as I am able, I’m going to push my magic into him to keep him alive, and there’s nothing he can do to stop me.

I clamber on, taking a moment to catch my balance. As soon as I do, I reclaim his hands in one of mine, the other cupping his face tenderly. I take a steadying breath as I once more push.

“Simon what are you doing?” he whispers breathlessly. “Magic doesn’t work out here, I can’t cast anything else.”  
“I know, but it can keep you warm.”

I can feel him shake his head minutely against my palm.

“You ridiculous man,” he breathes. At least his words are more steady now, no longer stammering from the cold.

“Your ridiculous man,” I twitch out a smile. He smiles back, eyes fluttering closed.

After a long moment, he opens them again, his face sombre.

“You never did promise me,” he says.

“Promise what?”  
“That you would carry on. If I don’t make it, I want you to keep going. Please promise me.”

“But you’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you die, Baz, I won’t lose you-“  
“Simon please. Please,” he begs. “Promise me.”  
I don’t want to, it feels like giving in. Like if I say it out loud it might become true. But as he begs me, I can’t help myself but give in.

“Ok, ok, if… _if_ you don’t make, but you will…” I take a breath and start again. “If you don’t make it, I promise I’ll carry on.”

“Thank you.”

The shrieks and the screams have died down now. Even the man who was blowing on his whistle has gone quiet. The silence descends upon us like a heavy fog.

“Baz?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I saved you. You- you’re the best thing that has ever come into my life.”

“And you mine.”  
“I don’t want it to end like this. We were supposed to run away together. We were supposed to…” I’m cut off by a rising lump in my throat.

“I know, my love,” he whispers. His eyes look suspiciously shiny. “Tell me about it?”

And who am I to deny that request?

“We would get to America and sneak off the boat. You, me and Agatha. We’d find a pawn shop and sell one of your fancy pocket watches so we could get a bed for the night. Then we’d find a job and a big house with a fireplace and a garden for the dog. We’d grow old together, Baz, holding hands on a small sofa just big enough for two…”

“Mmm sounds nice.”

He’s staring up at me, head resting against my hand as if I’m the only thing holding him up.

“I’m so tired,” he says.

“You can’t sleep yet,” I whisper. “But the boats will come back for us, you’ll see. Or someone will see the flares and come rescue us.”

His eyelids start to flutter, so I push a bit more of my magic into him, though now I’m starting to feel the strain of keeping the connection open for so long.

“Just a little while longer, I promise.”  
  


I’m absent-mindedly humming to myself, a lullaby Ebb used to sing to the goats, when I’m startled back into the present by a bright light sweeping over my face.

In the distance, one of the lifeboats has turned back and is pushing its way through the floating wreckage. It takes a few passes of the light before I remember that I should probably do something to draw their attention.

I shift, my hand still on Baz’s cheek. His hair has turned ashen in the frosty moonlight, swaying stiffly as the ocean swells and recedes.

“Baz?” I croak. His eyes are shut, they don’t even flutter. “Baz the boats are here, just like I promised.”  
I stroke my thumb along his cheek, magic still flowing between us, albeit weakly. We need to move.

“Baz, darling,” I try again. “Baz, wake up…”

He’s not moving.

Why is he not moving?

“Baz, wake up. We have to go.”

The boat is starting to get further away again. We’re going to miss it.

“Hey!” I call, but it comes out as little more than a hoarse whisper. “Hey come back! We’re here… we’re here…”  
I shift my weight, rocking precariously on the wood, causing me to lose my grip on Baz for a moment. He starts to slip further into the water.

“No,” I gasp. I readjust my grip, holding him fast. I can’t let go of him. If I stop giving him my magic, I’ll lose him. My mind is spinning, torn between going after the boat and staying with Baz.

“Baz, I can’t let you go,” I whisper. “I won’t.”  
But in the back of mind I know I should. I promised him I would carry on.

I promised.

I think about the whistle, the one the man had a short distance from here. But I can’t do it. Not without leaving Baz. He needs me. He needs my magic, I’m so sure.

So I do the only thing I can think of.

“ **Let there be light** ,” I cast. A bible verse like that takes energy I don’t really possess, but it’s all I can do.

A gentle glow encircles us, lighting up Baz from behind like a halo.

The last thing I hear is a splash of oars when the darkness overtakes me.

It’s raining.

The water drips down my face, but I barely notice. It’s cold, but everything is nowadays.

The Carpathia is going to be docking in New York soon, but there’s nothing there for me.

It had taken me a couple of days to come around after the rescue. By then everyone was mixed up, what with all the paperwork being lost to the sea. I couldn’t find anyone I knew, not even the people I saw get onto the lifeboats, like Penny and Agatha. I was too tired to try for long. I still am.

So instead, I just sit up here, on the deck in the rain.

People pass me by, but no one stops to talk. I think I must look as blank on the outside as I feel on the inside. I lose hours just… existing.

Even my magic is quiet. I can’t really feel it, not like I used to. I’m too scared to try even a small spell. I can’t help but resent it. Even with all that power, I wasn’t enough.

So many lives lost. And I couldn’t save them.

I couldn’t save _him_.

The thought echoes around my cavernous mind. It’s like when you lay on your arm for too long: You can feel that it’s gone numb, and you know if you move it’s going to hurt. So I don’t move.

I want to stay swaddled in the emptiness, where the cold light of day can’t penetrate. I’m so scared of the pain. I don’t want to think of him, but I’m scared that one day I won’t remember him. It’s confusing and it hurts, so I stop thinking.

I sit in the rain and I don’t think.

Solid ground feels strange underneath my feet. It’s only been eight days. It shouldn’t feel this weird.

My apartment is dingy. There’s only one room, and there’s mould growing in the corner. Once upon a time this would have been fine, functional as it is.

But it doesn’t have a fireplace, or a garden.

And it’s just me.

It’s easier than it should be to sign up. There’s a war and maybe I can help.

The general mage population here insists on leaving the Normals to it. _Let them fight it out,_ they say. But I’m practically Normal now anyway.

A small part of me is excited to go back to Europe. Maybe it will be good for me, to see the places from before.

The theatre of war seems like an ideal place right now. Even if something happens to me, I would never have broken my promise…

In the last couple of years, I’ve been walking the fine line between not thinking and not forgetting. I fail often. Those nights are dark. Sometimes I wish I had drowned that night. Sometimes I dream that I did and I’m so disappointed when I wake up, wet with sweat that drips like salty seawater into my eyes.

But worse are the dreams when I’m with him. His touch, the curve of his face, the silk of his hair. They come in the night. They come in the day when I’m supposed to be working. They come suddenly, and unbidden.

I miss him so much, I ache. But instead of shying away I welcome the pain. At least it means he was real.

Shouts and screams and gunshots. They’re all I hear past the ringing in my ears, but it’s hard to tell what is now and what is just my memory.

The letter is stiff and formal. The paper creamy and sealed with wax.

I don’t want to go. But as I lay in a foreign hospital bed, covered in bandages and scars, the heavy paper feels like a lifeline. Like a promise of relief.

 _Survivors_ , it calls us. Rolling my eyes feels like an effort I can’t make, but I actually want to. That’s new. The war wasn’t good for me. I don’t know why I ever thought it would be. But maybe _this_ is what I need.

 _I’ll go_ , I resolve, closing my eyes. _I’ll go_.

It’s raining on the docks. It’s like no time has passed at all.

I blink away the rain, looking around at the hundreds of faces amassed there. Memories stir, deep and dormant. I know these people. I recognise them. I recognise the sorrow behind their eyes. It’s the same as mine.

Unsurprisingly, there is a section reserved for the upper-class passengers. They stand apart, underneath an awning. I approach cautiously. I only spent an evening with these people, I know that it’s unlikely they’ll welcome me. (Especially not with the whole arresting me business.)

Maybe it’s better if I don’t…

I begin to turn away, but stop when I hear my name in a familiar voice.

“Simon?”

The crowd parts.

My breath catches.

His frame’s a little bulkier, hair shinier than I remember. But it’s him.

I blink and he blurs.

I didn’t even realise I was crying.

“Baz,” I sob. I lurch towards him, stumbling a little.

He looks like an angel, the lights overhead glistening in the rain around him. He takes a measured step forward as I approach.

“Baz?” I whisper, timidly. His slate grey eyes are still the same, stormy and stoic. But they soften at the tears still sliding down my face, brightening with tears of their own.

His free hand twitches up in an aborted move towards me. It’s enough. I reach for him, cupping his face in my hand.

“Simon,” he sighs. “Am I dreaming again?”  
“Not a dream,” I reply, swooping in to capture his lips with my own. We part after a sweet moment.

The people around us tut and mutter, but we pay them no heed.

We kiss once more, and again. It feels like heaven. Whatever I did to deserve this, I vow that this time I won’t let go.

“You know… we had plans to run away together…” I pointedly glance around at the eyes still on us. Not for long though because I can’t bear to not look upon Baz’s beautiful face. He smiles at that. It’s like the sun breaking out from behind the clouds. It feels like my heart has finally begun to beat again.

“You came back to me,” he sighs, content.

“I promised,” I remind him. “Always.”

“I love you,” he breaths, forehead pressed to mine.

“Even still?” I ask.

“Even still.”

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it. Let me know what you thought in the comments :) 
> 
> I must note that the "King of the world" scene in previous chapters was due to my housemate, who made me rewatch the film. And also thanks to the wonderful del_writes for helping me find where I slipped into past tense (it's a real issue I have lol). And finally, if you want to listen to the playlist I had on repeat while I wrote this chapter (and subsequently heavily influenced what was said) you can find it on spotify here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4brBnXs2bik25HXF336uNI?si=yuFEtO9RSUu-vtMeP344XQ


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